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THE 


PARTING OF THE WAYS 









THE 

PARTING OF THE 
WAYS 


HENRY BORDEAUX 


TRANSLATED BY 


LOUISE SEYMOUR HOUGHTON 


y 



NEW YORK 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 

1911 



Copyright, 1910 
By Henry Bordeaux 


<i? N 



Copyright, 1911 
By Duffield and Company 


. 


UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. 


u 


> 

\ \ 


©CI.A283322 


Contents 


BOOK FIRST 

THE CHOICE 

Page 

I Untrammeled Youth 5 

II The Summons 23 

III The Two Paths 48 

IV The Onward March 67 

V The Victory 83 

VI A Young Girl’s Heart 97 

VII The Retreat 112 

VIII The Chains 129 

BOOK SECOND 

I The Return to the Latin Quarter . . 145 

II The Visit 165 

III The Wrestlers 181 

IV The Prisoners 196 

V The Past 212 

VI Claire 226 

VII The Parting in Public 240 

VIII The Crossroads 255 



IN THE LATIN QUARTER 



» % 

1 . , . 


I 


i 


^ • I * 

. •* K' . . IV 


V 



1 

•i 


BOOK FIRST 


THE CHOICE 


Reasons come afterward^ hut at first a thing pleases or 
shocks me without my knowing the reason. — Roannez. 


The Parting of the Ways 


I 

UNTRAMMELED YOUTH 

A NEWSPAPER or two, — just enough to wrap an 
occasional parcel and show what new pleasures Paris 
has to offer, — odd numbers, lavender, red or scarlet, 
of the ‘‘ Mercure de France,” the “ Hermitage,” and 
“ Political and Literary Chit Chat,” an “ Akedyseril ” 
or an Eve future ” by Villiers de PIsle Adam, verses 
by Moreas or Verlaine, perhaps the ‘‘ Dying Society 
and Anarchy ” of Jean Grave, assuredly “ A Free 
Man ” by Maurice Barres, whom the Latin Quarter 
was the first to appreciate, photographs of Primitifs, 
of English Pre-Raphaelites, of “ Rose Croix ” exhibits 
scattered hap-hazard among reproductions of Charles 
CattePs marines or Lucien Simon’s “ Fisher-Folk,” a 
ticket of the Thetoe de PCEuvre for a representa- 
tion of “ The Weavers ” or of “ An Enemy of the 
People,” finally, a young person with banded hair, — 
these are what one was pretty sure to find in the rooms 
of a conscientious and up-to-date student of the year 
1894. 

Nothing of all this miscellany was lacking in the 
rooms of Pascal Rouvray (22 Avenue de PObserva- 
toire, fifth floor) except the young person with banded 
hair. But she was doubtless expected, if one might 
judge by a huge bunch of crimson roses recently 


6 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


brought by a florist, which the servant, an old house- 
keeper, who looked a cross between a pew-opener and 
a theater-attendant, had carelessly thrown upon a 
table without removing the wrapping or refreshing 
the stems with water. To offset these tokens of fri- 
volity were a number of scientific and medical works 
scattered about on shelves, and a revolving bookcase 
with the works of Claude Bernard, Annals of the 
Pasteur Institute, writings of Charcot, Vulpran, 
Duchenne de Boulogne, — all pretty well worn, — 
most convenient to the hand. The large, well-lighted 
and almost elegant apartment, — study with great bay 
window, dining-room with balcony, and bedroom, — 
together with the serious aspect of the books, chosen 
for a longer future than that of examinations, all 
spoke of an occupant who had passed the hazardous 
student years, and reached that well-defined, perplex- 
ing and solemn moment when one must put the ac- 
quirements of youth to use. Pascal Rouvray, one of 
the most brilliant students of his generation, had just 
been appointed, at an exceptionally early age, super- 
intendent of a clinic for diseases of the nervous system. 

Number 22 Avenue de PObservatoire is at the cor- 
ner of the Boulevard de Montparnasse. The windows 
look down in spring upon a river of verdure which 
flows lazily into the Luxembourg Gardens as into a 
lake, except where at one point a sun-bathed channel 
breaks away to form the Boulevard Saint-Michel. 
Above the open place before the Bal Bullier, near by, 
towers the dome of the Pantheon, and on fine days the 
Church of the Sacred Heart on far-away Montmartre 
soars above the mists of distance, beyond the sea of 
roofs, its white walls suggesting some Saracen city. 
One holds all Paris in a single glance as a child, 
playing on the shore, thinks to hold the sea in the 
hollow of his hand ; and the many-tinted city, begin- 


UNTRAMMELED YOUTH 


7 


ning thus in a garden and ending in a mirage, might 
well captivate and inflame a young man’s brain, even 
if it had not already caught the fever from Balzac. 

A key turned in the lock and Pascal hurried into 
the room. 

“Where are my flowers, Melanie.'* What! You 
have let them die of thirst! Quick, water in the 
vases ! ” 

He hastily arranged the vases, crowding in the 
flowers — one does not improvise himself florist — 
placing them on the chimney and on a chest of 
drawers before a large photograph of a girl in even- 
ing dress. 

“ Where are the cakes ” 

“ Here.” 

He arranged them on a dish under the very nose 
of the useless Melanie, and turned to inspect the fur- 
niture, while she looked on in petrifled amazement. 

“ Now,” he concluded, “ you may go back to the 
kitchen and make the tea.” 

“ I have n’t finished in here,” protested the house- 
keeper, recovering the use of her tongue. “ And be- 
sides, there is a letter for Monsieur.” 

“ Very well, lay it on the table.” There were more 
important things on his mind than his mail. 

“ See here,” he added, “ if the bell rings I shall 
open the door myself — you understand.^ ” 

“ Yes, sir. Monsieur expects a lady.” 

“ I perceive that you do understand. Melanie, you 
are perspicacious.” 

“We have waited for her long enough.” 

“ What ’s that you say ^ ” 

“ It ’s a long time since Monsieur has received 
visitors of this sort.” 

“ Melanie, you have ceased to understand.” 

He waved her away, not without an amused smile 


8 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


at the doting old servant who would gladly have 
shared his secrets, and who with thoroughly Pa- 
risian indulgence seemed to regret his many lost 
opportunities, and hastened to post himself upon the 
balcony. The trees of the avenue, the great piles of 
buildings, the towers on Montmartre, were bathed in a 
sea of golden dust, shot through with the rays of the 
sun, sloping toward its setting. It was one of those 
fairy-like days of June which are the flower of all 
the year, but he saw neither its glory nor any of its 
details, so intently was he gazing upon the boule- 
vard far below, where omnibuses, carriages, foot- 
passengers, jostled one another with the pigmy bustle 
of an ant-hill. Long he watched, until at last a 
victoria with two ladies drew up at the curb. 

“Will they both come up.?” he anxiously asked 
himself. “ No, Madame Aveniere is so delicate — ” 

His hope was granted. Only one of the ladies quit- 
ted the carriage and vanished under the archway. 
He left the window, darted to the antechamber, then 
suddenly checked himself; he would wait for her 
here. 

One of the most precious of all emotions is that of 
listening with the heart for the footsteps of the be- 
loved one. She who at this moment was mounting 
the stairs to his fifth floor (she must have reached 
the first by this time), Laurence Aveniere, his be- 
trothed, embodied, with all the love of his life, its 
fixed order, its natural harmony. In her he had 
reached the apex of his youth, whence he could sur- 
vey the world that lay at his feet and take its meas- 
ure. (The bench on the second landing invites to 
rest, but she will not sit down — ) 

He had had the unique good fortune of meeting 
her at the very moment when a man awakes to the 
consciousness of his powers, while as yet nothing has 


UNTRAMMELED YOUTH 


9 


occurred to impair them. (The easy-chair on the 
third landing is moth-eaten; it rather repels than 
attracts — ) 

Their engagement was only two or three days old, 
— it had not yet been announced. But his parents 
would surely not delay the important journey required 
for the formal request of her hand. That letter upon 
the table was, indeed, in his father’s handwriting. 
(At the fourth landing one’s breath begins to give 
out, but one goes on. If only she has n’t tired her- 
self, coming up too fast! — ) 

He had taken lunch with her that morning, in 
her house in the Rue Desbordes-Valmore, at Passy, 
and she had said to him, “ I shall be passing through 
the Avenue de I’Observatoire in a carriage with 
Mamma about five o’clock ; perhaps I ’ll make you a 
little visit — Mamma will permit. Just in and out 
again. I should like to see where you live.” (But 
she ought to be here. The bell has n’t rung yet. 
How high this apartment is, and how hard to reach!) 

The longed-for tinkle startled him as if he had not 
expected it. He rushed ahead of Melanie, whom curi- 
osity had impelled to disregard orders, and opened 
the door. 

“ Here I am,” she said. 

“ You ! It is you ! Come in, quick ! ” 

‘‘ I must n’t stop. It is something to have come 
at all. Only in and out again, you know. Mamma is 
below in the carriage.” 

He drew her into the study. She was not in the 
least out of breath. Climbing stairs suited her, or 
perhaps she had come up without hurrying, with 
reasonable deliberation. She appeared not at all 
embarrassed. 

“ Don’t speak,” he said, more moved than she. 
“ Let me look at you in my home. For the moment I 


10 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


want nothing but just to look at you. To hear your 
voice would be too much.” 

She laughed at the extravagant adoration, which, 
however, she was ready enough to receive, — laughed 
as little girls do, whose joy is quite untroubled. 

Who does not feel a sort of disinterested pleasure 
on meeting in the street or in some public place one of 
those rare, perfectly assorted young couples whose 
height, age, appearance, manners, are in fine accord.? 
Who is not moved almost to thank them for the joy 
they exhale, and for the witness they bear to elective 
affinities, to pre-established harmonies.? Thus were 
Laurence and Pascal suited to one another. Not 
one of their acquaintances would be surprised to 
hear of their engagement. 

Yet the impression made by each separately dif- 
fered widely from that made by the two together. 
The girl, tall and slender, long-limbed, with that 
purity of proportion which is the joint gift of nature 
and outdoor sports, would have commanded attention 
by her light grace alone, and if her face at once at- 
tracted the eye, it was not so much for the profile, 
clear cut as a medal, the golden blond hair curling 
around her brow, and the dark eyes whose somewhat 
hard expression was softened by the color of her hair, 
as for the singularity of her coloring, unlike that of 
any one else. There is a luminous kind of fairness, 
such, for example, as the pigment with which Fra 
Angelico painted the Coronation of the Virgin on 
the wall of the Convent of San Marco; Laurence’s 
skin was like that — translucent. On her mother’s 
side she belonged to those northern races whose blood 
flows quietly, or seems to hide its flow, like a stream 
under ice. Her almost infantine smile gave am- 
biguity to her too classic and serious features, — 
a curious charm of uncertainty which serenely and 


UNTRAMMELED YOUTH 11 

as if by nature attracted, disconcerted, moved to 
rapture. 

‘‘ I am never sure of your eyes,” Pascal had said to 
her in one of those welcome moods of melancholy 
which sweep over the young lover, trying to under- 
stand the baffling impression which she made upon 
him. 

‘‘ Why.? ” 

“ Because they saw too many things before they 
saw me.” 

‘‘ Perhaps they would never have found you if 
they had sought for you less.” 

The reply would have seemed flippant but for 
the grave tone which added a touch of tenderness to 
the words. Her flexible voice vibrated through the 
silence like the deep notes of the violoncello. 

Quite contrariwise, the young man’s presence dif- 
fused a sense of security, confidence, life, all that 
guarantees success to him who has chosen for his 
profession to make war with death. His tall figure, 
clear-cut features, hair en brosse, the buoyancy of his 
twenty-seven years, commanded that confidence which 
goes out only to well-balanced powers, to the union of 
physical health with intellectual and moral vigor, 
a masculinity from which ultra- refinement shrinks as 
from something coarse, only to turn to it for refuge 
at the first menace of danger. 

The girl had taken possession of the room with 
the open bay window. She wore a costume of flax- 
blue plaited voile with puffed sleeves and deep cuffs of 
black velvet to match the bodice, and a broad collar 
of old guipure. The little straw hat, of the same 
delicate shade as the gown, was bordered with black 
velvet and trimmed with great poppies of black silk. 
How many times in the long future would her image 
rise before him precisely thus ! 


12 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ May I speak now ? ” she ventured prettily, as he 
remained silent. 

“Yes, indeed!” 

“ Red roses I Let me take one — may I ? ” 

“ All of them.” 

“ All — I ’d like to. Ah, here am 1 1 Do you look 
at me often.? And is this where you work.? ” 

“ Where I try to work. I forbid myself to think 
of you for a whole hour.” 

“ That is soon over.” 

“ And the quarter is not past when I take up your 
photograph again, or your letters.” 

“ Then give them back to me,” she smiled, “ I will 
not have them impairing your value.” Then, more 
seriously, “ I want them to be a help to you.” 

“ Don’t you know, Laurence, that it is to you I 
owe my best work, my sense of holding life in my 
hands, and all my happiness .? ” 

She smiled her pleasure, and passing through the 
open bay leaned against the balcony railing. 

“ From here you see all Paris. What a great 
noise it makes! Come and listen with me.” 

While he was coming, she spoke to the city as to 
a living creature. 

“ One day, perhaps, she will recognize you.” 
“Who.?” 

“ Why, Paris. She must recognize you as a bene- 
factor. Do you forget your ambitions.? ” 

“ I am not precisely thinking of them at this 
moment.” 

“ I think of them all the time, ever since that even- 
ing when you told me your hopes for the future. It 
was that evening — ” 

“ That evening.? ” 

“ That I understood — ” 

“ I had understood long before — ” 


UNTRAMMELED YOUTH 13 

She smiled; then recalling the conversation to an 
ordinary tone — 

“ You must be sure to discover some unknown 
microbe, just to please me. With the means of 
destroying it, of course.” 

“ Ah, you want your husband to be celebrated.” 

“ Certainly. I know what you are worth. Now I 
must run. Mamma is making signals from the street.” 

“Already ! ” 

“ But you will come to Passy to-morrow.” 

“ Don’t go yet ! I have hardly seen you. And you 
have not told me — ” 

“ What?” 

“ Whether you love me to-day.” 

“ Nor have you, either.” 

“How do we love, Laurence? Freely and for 
always, do we not? ” 

She repeated, “ Yes, freely and for always. In the 
face of this Paris which is looking at us.” 

He dared not kiss her, because she had trusted her- 
self to him in his own rooms. He heaped her arms 
with roses, and unhampered by her burden she went 
lightly down the stairs. As she went down, he became 
for the first time conscious of the supple movements of 
her body. It is only for a brief moment that intense 
love annihilates desire, and regret that he had not 
clasped her to his breast gave a dash of bitterness to 
the happy memory of her visit. 

He went back to the balcony and saw her enter her 
carriage, lay the roses across her knees, then lift 
them with a gesture of farewell. Her mother waved 
a greeting, the horse started, and they were gone. It 
was soon impossible for him to discern them. Why 
had not Laurence looked back at least once or twice? 
But she had come, was not that enough? 

He lingered on the balcony, on the very spot which 


14 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


she had occupied, in that mood which abolishes time 
and space, and in which the absence of external sen- 
sations intensifies the inward emotion which deliciously 
carries one out of oneself. The fresh breeze of 
evening breathed softly, an impalpable violet haze 
floated over the far horizon, but he was unaware of 
the encompassing sweetness, for within himself was a 
sweetness which made a part of his very breath. He 
was loving as others live, so intensely as hardly to be 
conscious of it. 

“ Monsieur did not ring for the tea.? ” Melanie was 
bringing in the tray. Her entrance recalled him from 
afar. 

“ It is not needed.” 

‘‘ What ! she is gone ! And Monsieur let her go ? ” 

“ Take it away, Melanie, take it away. And those 
cakes, too.” 

“ Monsieur will dine here this evening.? ” 

‘‘ No, I have invited some friends to the restaurant.” 

With the cakes and tea he had prepared all sorts 
of appropriate phrases which also had not been 
needed. That is pretty much the fate of thoughts 
of love — the best of them remain with us on account. 

To him Laurence represented what marriage too 
seldom represents to the young people of France — all 
the anticipations of a youth which has never been really 
touched by low and ephemeral alliances. He belonged 
to a generation athirst for independence, intoxicated 
with a confused buzzing of ideas, resolved to live 
their own life. Of his generation he had even taken 
the lead in his own specialty. His father had been 
the first to foresee this, when he sent his sixteen-year- 
old boy to Paris armed with his double baccalaureate 
from the schools of Lyons. There is only one city in 
our too centralized France for students of more than 
average ability, and even in that city one is as likely 


UNTRAMMELED YOUTH 


15 


to meet failure as success. Ten years of medical 
study, interrupted only by the year of voluntary 
army service, had brought him, step by step, from 
the school where he had gained the gold medal to a 
doctorate, the thesis for which, “ A Contribution to 
the Experimental Study of Infectious Myelitis,” bore 
witness to a rare scientific mind, and finally to an ex- 
ceptionally early appointment to the charge of a 
clinic. The appointment dated from only a few days 
before, and seemed to prophesy that if he continued 
to follow the career of competitive examinations, and 
refrained from plunging too deeply into private 
practice, he would soon reach the position of hospital 
physician and a professorship in the Faculty of Medi- 
cine. The order of his progress would be as rapid and 
methodical as a well-regulated shooting-match. 

Ambition and a sense of remoteness had safe- 
guarded him from the low attachments which too often 
fetter the freedom of youth. It was his good fortune 
to have gone straight forward, untrammeled by ties of 
any sort, toward a goal which he had set very far 
beyond him. 

It was at this juncture that one of his instructors, 
Marriel, who was attending Mme. Aveniere through 
an enteritis, and who had several times called upon 
him for assistance in the sick-room, smilingly sug- 
gested to him that the young lady seemed to take an 
uncommon interest in his future. 

“ She has an antipathy to society young men,” 
said the old practitioner, “ and I quite understand 
it. They have been close around her from her child- 
hood. What she wants in a husband is a young 
man capable of being one day a great man, or at 
least a well-known man — the same thing to a wo- 
man. Only a learned man or an artist would suit her. 
Singular taste! A good man is worth much more. 


16 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

Women are queer, nowadays. At any rate, you are 
evidently the man.” 

Such a hint, when it corresponds with a secret 
inclination, is often sufficient to determine a man’s 
future. It was impossible that Mile. Aveniere should 
meet an interesting face without seeking to know 
all about its owner. The decorated artists, the ripe 
and elegant metaphysicians of the Sorbonne, who 
frequented her mother’s drawing-room, were always 
ready to explain to her the color of the world or the 
rojjaance of the infinite, but while listening to them 
she never lost sight of their baldness or other signs of 
old age. Young men so often keep their intelligence 
in the ^background, at least for the time being, that 
she had begun to despair of finding youth and intel- 
lect united in the same person. Finding both in Pascal, 
she gave herself up to the new friendship, and he 
went on improving himself to give her pleasure. To 
his surprise he found that her ambition for him was 
even greater than his own. The girls he had till then 
known had thought of nothing farther than to win 
his love. This girl allured him on in the very course 
he had marked out for himself, running before him 
like a Diana in a forest path, calling him to hasten. 
Was she already aware that a woman’s social influence 
depends first of all upon her husband’s importance.? 
But the more she inspired him to a fever of effort, the 
more she cultivated calmness, like an accomplishment, 
for herself. 

Thus he found in love a stimulus of all his faculties, 
the very motive power of his highest development. 

Practically, this marriage would help him. The 
Avenieres were widely connected. Their style of liv- 
ing showed them to be people of fortune. V'The young 
doctor would find himself spared all those false starts, 
those weary struggles, which too often hamper the 


UNTRAMMELED YOUTH 


17 


early stages of a career. He would go to meet his 
future by a royal road. It might well be that he 
found himself somewhat confused among all these 
considerations, practical and sentimental, but he had 
at least come to know the happiest of human experi- 
ences — the union, in early youth, of these two oppo- 
sites, passion and a plan of life. 

When she stood there, leaning against the balus- 
trade above that luminous Paris, he had experienced 
a sense of completeness which no satisfaction of pride 
or of love could surpass. All the significance of his 
past had come home to him. He had tacitly dedicated 
it to her, like those roses which she had so delightedly 
inhaled and carried away. The day was to come 
when in bitterness of heart he would review his life in 
the memory of that scene, which by its results became 
one of those important moments upon which his whole 
future was suspended. 

Recalled from his state of torpor by Melanie’s at- 
tentions, he went to the table for his neglected letter, 
in the address of which he had recognized the hand- 
writing of his father, a physician of Lyons. For a 
moment he gazed at it without opening it. No doubt 
it was the reply to the announcement of his engage- 
ment, which he had sent off two days before ; possibly 
his parents had expressed some dissatisfaction on 
learning that he had by himself concluded an event 
which is usually arranged by one’s family.^ But was 
not this what general agreement called a fine mar- 
riage Besides, they knew him to be impatient under 
any yoke, disinclined to counsel, quite resolved to 
organize his own career and mode of life. His father 
not only knew but respected his independence. At 
times, it is true, during his vacations when he had 
resolutely stated his opinions on the subject of free- 
dom he had felt the paternal gaze fixed upon him with 


18 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


something of questioning, something of disquiet. But 
this inquisition had never lasted long, — his father’s 
expression had soon become confident. And his 
mother always thought with his father. 

He read the letter — a long one — standing just 
where Laurence had stood on the balcony. Its open- 
ing words appeared disturbing, and more than once 
as he read, he muttered protests below his breath. 

" Lyons, June 10, 1894. 

“ My dear Pascal, — I have asked your mother, 
who is your usual correspondent, to permit me to 
express our surprise. We have not been consulted 
concerning the gravest act of your life — the choice 
of your companion, the founding of your home. You 
are our eldest son, our pride. We have never, so far 
as I know, been unreasonably hard upon you. I know 
all the importance of individuality, and that it is not 
by unceasing insistence that a family transmits its 
spirit and character to succeeding generations. I 
know, too, that younger generations, and especially 
the one to which you belong, go on their way without 
concerning themselves too much with what they leave 
behind them; and I have watched over too many 
lives, and also over too many deaths, to complain of 
facts or rebel against them. But at least we de- 
served your confidence. 

“ This confidence, which I have many times restored 
to your mother when she was anxious about you — 
more often than you will ever know — it is now your 
turn to restore to us both. I do not consent to lose it. 
I cannot believe that in making your choice you have 
not been in some sort constrained by those voices of 
the past which in spite of ourselves insist upon being 
heard when our most sacred interests are at stake. 
We had hoped that our daughter-in-law would have 


UNTRAMMELED YOUTH 


19 

been a young girl of Dauphiny, the cradle of our 
race, whose impress we all bear. She of whom we had 
thought would have brought you as her dowry not 
only a fortune honestly come by, but courage and 
confidence — virtues indispensable to one who intends 
to make something of his life. One who would under- 
take anything worth while must be sure of peace and 
security at home. A man of action needs to be free 
from all family disquietudes. Try to understand — 
will you not ? — the anxiety of parents who are look- 
ing forward to the future of their son. Love alone 
does not suffice for marriage. Marriage implies a 
family. We should simply have given you counsel. 
You have done without it. I hope that at least you 
have been influenced by our spirit. 

“ Your mother has always been a little afraid of 
Paris. I did not hesitate to send you there for study, 
notwithstanding the fastidious notions of the people 
of Lyons, because of the enlarged intellectual capacity 
which a right-minded man may gain there. But one 
may also gain there a large stock of false ideas. 
Paris is, above all, a city which takes small account of 
the antecedents of people, is recruited from all sources, 
and consents to a society of casual individuals and 
short-lived marriages. People do not settle there per- 
manently. Bethink yourself that to marry is to con- 
sent to permanence. This is the whole matter. When 
one builds for a long future, one takes thought for 
solidity of construction. We are living in a troubled 
time, when everything is questioned by every one. Be- 
ware of these quicksands with your betrothed. Once 
agreed upon the essential belief, the indissolubility of 
marriage, you will make your arrangements accord- 
ingly, out of respect for the ancient name of Rouvray. 
Forgive me for insisting upon this point. I should 
have preferred to talk with you of these things more 


20 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


quietly during the vacation in our summer home at 
Colletiere. Evenings in the country are just the time 
for such simple yet important discussions. You have 
allowed no time for them ; I must speak without delay. 

“ I was already somewhat disappointed in your 
doctor’s thesis. Your method seems to me incom- 
plete, however directly it may go to its aim, with no 
consideration of the old notions which it rejects. You 
draw too sharp a line between the disease and the in- 
valid to satisfy me. One would say that the former 
alone interests you. You take too little account of the 
infinite complexity of human nature, and you are too 
much inclined to bring the whole divine art of medi- 
cine back to formulae, as if it were only a question 
of chemistry and physics. Nor can I admit the truth 
of the epigraph which you borrowed from Charcot: 
‘ There are no hybrids in nervous pathology.’ I have 
practiced long, observed much, and I am growing 
old. The notes which I have collected, and which I 
may perhaps publish some day, forbid me to accept 
your conclusions as to the origin of maladies of the 
nerves. You lose some of their elements when you defi- 
nitely separate them from any moral cause. A doctor 
is not merely a biologist. The theories of Pasteur have 
greatly served the science of medicine, but they can 
not confine it to the laboratory. The great Pasteur 
himself never gave them this meaning. We will speak 
of this again, and, moreover, experience will bring you 
to the right views. I am sure of your ability. 

“Now that I have finished scolding you, — how 
many times have I done it in the last ten years since 
you left us to try to excel us ? — do not in the least 
doubt our love for you. We shall welcome Mile. 
Aveniere as our daughter. Her social position as 
you describe it cannot but be gratifying to us, since 
it will facilitate your entrance upon your career, and 


UNTRAMMELED YOUTH 21 

will serve your legitimate ambitions. We shall look 
to your betrothed herself for the explanation of your 
choice. I hope she may be worthy of your mother, 
to whom I owe my serenity of mind and peace of 
heart. 

“ I shall shortly set out for Paris, to present to 
Mile. Aveniere’s parents — though somewhat late — 
the formal request for their daughter’s hand. Your 
mother would gladly accompany me, but I dread the 
journey for her in the increasing heat. I was think- 
ing of taking the rapide to-morrow, but I feel some- 
what fatigued this morning — a little trouble with the 
circulation, somewhat overworked no doubt. I al- 
most always feel the need of rest at this time of the 
year. You will excuse my delay, which will not be for 
long. 

“ Adieu, my dear son. I embrace you even more 
fatherly than usual. In the past you have given us 
only satisfaction, and we bless your future. 

“ Pierre Rouvray.” 

Notwithstanding the penetrating affection of this 
letter, it wounded Pascal in his two most sensitive 
points.’' He had always proposed to go forward un- 
hindered, in life as well as in science. One of the 
charms of his engagement had been its perfect free- 
dom. When he and Laurence talked of society, of 
the family, it was always to set themselves apart from 
both, accepting them only without obligations. Both 
believed that marriage was binding only so long as 
love imposed it, a theory which, however, did not for- 
bid them to ask, like all lovers, if they should love 
one another always. Because they had been so greatly 
privileged as to become acquainted they set them- 
selves apart from the rest of humanity, which so far 
as they were concerned might look to institutions to 


22 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


solve its problems as best they could. Each must 
live his own life,” thought the young man, “ there are 
no general principles.” It was by an inconsistency 
which he quite failed to perceive that he had trans- 
ferred to nervous phenomena the inflexible laws re- 
vealed by physical and chemical science. His thesis 
had considered man as under an absolute mechanical 
law which tolerated no exceptions. 

He had read his father’s letter without pleasure and 
he laid it down with a gesture of rebellion. Then he 
wrote a few lines which relaxed the tense expression 
of his countenance. It was a “ little blue ” addressed 
to Laurence, thanking her for having come. 

The sun was going down behind Mont Valerian. It 
was half past six. There was still an hour to while 
away before his appointment at the Cafe Manette 
with his two best friends, Felix Chassal and Hubert 
Epervans, whom he had invited to dinner to celebrate 
his appointment as head of a clinic. He felt the need 
of walking, and that it would be pleasant to stroll 
through this Latin Quarter where he had spent the 
days of his youth and which he was about to leave. 

After dropping his pneumatic message in the 
nearest post-office he turned back and notified his 
concierge : 

“ If a telegram comes for me, have it brought at 
once to the Cafe Manette.” 

Who could say.?^ Laurence might reply this very 
evening. He would not wait for her answer. It was 
a foolish hope, but not ill-suited to a young man of 
twenty-seven who had received a visit from his be- 
trothed that afternoon. 


II 


THE SUMMONS 

Pascal Rouvray went down the Avenue de I’Ob- 
servatoire, under the trees, which cast a heavy shadow 
over the central grass plot, and passed into the 
garden. 

For Parisian students there is only one garden. 
The Luxembourg belongs to them, especially the part 
included between the rue Auguste-Comte, the Boule- 
vard Saint-Michel and the Odeon. Trees, flower-beds, 
a long terrace, statues of gods and queens, a sheet 
of water, the Medicis Fountain where Polyphemus 
surprises Acis and Galatea, — what a profusion of 
delights in their park ! But there are always exami- 
nations to be passed! 

The evening is especially the time for this walk. 
The sunlight filters down through the thick foliage, 
falling gently upon the alleys, shimmering in the 
warm air above the octagonal basin, gilding the fresh 
mist which evaporates from the sprinklers. This last 
hour before the close of day seems to steal unob- 
served through the garden, shedding abroad a se- 
renity which may be breathed, a refined and almost 
sacred joy. The gods upon their columns, the queens 
of France upon their pedestals, assume a little air of 
sad unconstraint. The pigeons are finishing their 
play before seeking their nests. One of them alights 
upon the upraised arm of Diana with the fawn, among 
the flowers, as if to remain there. 


^4 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


Though July was at hand, the Luxembourg, like a 
theater, had “ standing room only.” Groups of stu- 
dents, some in straw hats, others wearing out their 
last black velvet caps, some of them with coat thrown 
open, but most of them in correct costume, were walk- 
ing with young women in banded hair, “ mistresses of 
esthetes ” of the left bank, who concealed the inferi- 
ority of their function under an amiable friendliness 
as that of their clothes under the extravagances of 
fashion — puffed sleeves, broad collars, tiny hats. 
Not all these young people belonged to the educa- 
tional world; there were obscure poets, clerks who 
had broken away from their shops, foreigners recog- 
nizable by their coloring and their cravats — all hold- 
ing salon in the open air. The conversations, while 
mingled with cheap gallantries and gossip of the 
schools or the beer saloons, were chiefly discussions 
of art, literature, metaphysics, all finding common 
ground in the love of liberty — often of unbridled 
liberty. Pascal smiled to hear, as he passed along, 
one or another of his own idealogical propositions 
on the lips of so many of these peripatetics. He 
turned into a green alley under whose leafy archway 
appeared a view of the Pantheon, and came out upon 
the Boulevard Saint-Michel, intending to spend there 
the last unoccupied hours of a long period which could 
have no morrow. Already his unescapable destiny 
was following him, without as yet touching him on the 
shoulder to oblige him to turn around. 

With the exception of the well-conceived entrance 
of the Hotel Cluny and the completion of the Sor- 
bonne, the Latin Quarter was at that time what it is 
to-day but the student population which it then har- 
bored differed from that of the present. No part of 
France is more important for making a forecast of 
the nation’s future, and feeling the pulse of its moral 


THE SUMMONS 


^5 


condition. Always full of movement, it changes from 
one generation to another, each change bringing about 
its own reaction. With superb light-heartedness these 
young people whose life makes the life of the Quarter 
bear within themselves peace and war, enthusiasm and 
failure. With what collective personality shall we 
endow the youthful generation of 1894! and the years 
preceding.'* Pascal Rouvray represented it, as did his 
friends, Hubert ^Jpervans and Felix Chassal, each of 
them overlaying the others’ personality with some- 
thing of his own, more or less fine or coarse, more or 
less apt to modify his individuality. The drama in 
which he was to be called to play his part is one to 
which with various modifications nearly every life is 
called. Our pathway through this forest of life which 
Dante has described lies first in the shadow, and leads 
to a crossroads where many ways meet. Which one 
shall we take ? That which leads straight forward, or 
one of these byways, so alluring in their mossy fresh- 
ness, and whose sinuous curves may lead to some ad- 
venture.? Our choice will not be entirely free. It 
will be determined in us by forces which we have been 
used to welcome, powers of feeling and of intelligence 
which being exercised around us have come at last to 
find a lodgment in our own brain and heart, unless 
they found them preoccupied by other earlier forces. 
What modes of thought and feeling were destined to 
have weight in Pascal’s decisions ? 

Every twenty or twenty-five years the atmosphere 
seems to renew itself, and a new conception of life 
and the means of success to come into consciousness. 
The horrors of war and of the Commune which 
ushered in our own age have been briefly summed up 
by an eyewitness, in a book of reminiscences: foot- 
soldiers swarming up the face of the Buttes Chau- 
mont, to where a red flag floats above two pieces of 


26 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


artillery, defended by men in shirt-sleeves, wearing 
the kepi of the national guard ; above, on the terrace 
of one of the Eastern forts, Prussian soldiers looking 
on. After such a nightmare a nation might well think 
only of its own well-being, and in fact the country fell 
into line with pretty rapid step, but a step which soon 
began to lose its cadence. The youthful generation 
which had taken part in these events had received the 
efficient grace of conflict, and longed for their revenge. 
Another witness has described the unhappiness of the 
period immediately succeeding, not shrinking from 
analyzing with rigid care for truth the not isolated 
case of an Armand de Querne, his mind soiled and per- 
verted even in his schooldays by the literature of the 
time, — a cramped impressionism, a low and pessi- 
mistic naturalism, impious as a matter of elegance, 
disgusted with life, with no directing ideas, nihilist by 
chance, clear-headed enough to despise his own pas- 
sions, his intellectual and sentimental experiences end- 
ing in moral sterility. An utter failure, uninteresting 
but for its presage of a failure yet more pathetic, that 
of a generation whose disorders will twenty years later 
bear the fruits of this one. How is it possible not to 
take heed of this example when one finds in almost 
every work of fiction of that date its more or less 
perfect counterpart? 

Those years of depression were followed by a re- 
action. What a common ideal had been powerless to 
do was effected by the search for pleasure, a force 
which is not to be neglected when young people are 
concerned. The great fair of 1889, unequaled by any 
former exposition, precisely met the national need of 
confidence, of success. By the administration of joy 
France at length came back to her true rank. No 
student is indifferent to priority of this kind. Now 
began a movement of search beyond the frontiers for 


THE SUMMONS 


n 


fountains of cosmopolitan light and leading, even to 
the little Javanese dancing girls, who, clever and in- 
sinuating, whirled in a ring like an ever-recurring 
circle of vanished desires. 

Toward what goal tended this new spreading of the 
wings? France was being reborn to life, to gayety. 

As usual in this country, it was the life of thought 
and form, the gayety of the artist’s studio, of a manu- 
factory of ideas. The fashionable authors indeed, 
still at odds with life, maintained a taste for death 
which was evidently out of date. 

As the deplorable young men of the time of Musset, 
smitten with the mal du siecle, and recognizing them- 
selves in a Werther or a Manfred, hearkened to coun- 
sels which came to them from that stationary agitator, 
Goethe, and from Byron who destroyed himself to 
music, so the grave youth of the time of Renan and 
Taine, in a frenzy of intellectual curiosity, submitted 
themselves to the influence of the Hegelian philosophy, 
never dreaming that the retribution of Jena was bound 
to follow the humanitarian invasion. The young people 
of that time, seeking a guidance more in harmony with 
their instincts than the pessimism or the dilettantism 
with which French literature was saturated, welcomed 
Tolstoy with his overflowing pity, Ibsen and his in- 
dividualism, forerunner of Nietzsche — assumed names 
of communism and anarchy. For a time the two were 
confounded because both were descended from Jean 
Jacques, one from the “ Social Contract,” the other 
from the “ Reveries of a Solitary Pedestrian.” In 
the student world facts were soon to give the idea 
of liberty precedence over that of equality. 

In 1893 there was a tumult in the Latin Quarter 
and an attempt at barricades. The authorities had 
proposed to oppose its pleasures. Police inter- 
vention was brutal and tactless. It is a grave mistake 


28 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


to be needlessly severe with those who are at the age 
of permitted audacities. Later it becomes all the 
more difficult to keep them within bounds. The young 
men who give most cause for apprehension are those 
who have no extreme opinions. The result was a 
movement for liberty which will be remembered by 
those who witnessed this period of anarchistic out- 
rages. On the Boulevard Saint-Michel the ill-timed 
and childish theories of Jean Grave, the first of the 
“primaries,” were all the rage. The recently brevetted 
female teachers were reading Bakounine between lec- 
tures. A review which had its hour of celebrity, “ The 
Hermitage,” having started a referendum on the ques- 
tion, “ What is the best condition of social welfare, 
spontaneous and free institutions or a methodical and 
disciplined social organism,” had received ninety-nine 
answers, all from the rising generation, of which fifty- 
two were favorable to liberty against twenty-three 
advocating restraint. 

These manifestations proved that young men were 
seeking a state of intellectual exaltation and lyricism 
in which the charm of living might be more vividly ex- 
perienced. The analyst of this state had already dis- 
covered it to be the “ worship of the Me.” He had not 
yet discovered that the Me is upheld by society, and 
like Antaeus renews its strength on touching the 
earth — the earth, where lie our dead. This worship 
was then practiced in default of any other religion, 
and promised with authority to find its full develop- 
ment in method. Utopians of every feather, sym- 
bolists, magi, neo-mystics, neo-Christians, set out 
like the “ storks ” in pursuit of the ideal. In the 
pleasures of the j ourney the “ storks ” forgot their 
destination, and sought intense emotion by stimu- 
lating brain and susceptibility. Evidences of this 
temporary frenzy still abound. “ Life is fine and 


THE SUMMONS 


29 


sacred,” proclaimed the “ Chevauchee d’Yeldis.” The 
emancipation of the individual won applause at the rep- 
resentations of “ Romersholm,” or of “ An Enemy of 
the People.” Young women wore the title of Ibseniennes 
like a crown and made egotism fashionable. Brune- 
tiere, in the Academy, having in the name of tradition 
scoffed at the tumultuous onset of these young people, 
mad with modernity, makers of obscure and halting 
verses, accusing them of speaking Norwegian or Ger- 
man, was answered by the necessity of gaining new 
vigor from foreign sources. It was once again indif- 
ference to that concentration which is necessary to a 
vanquished people, but it was also a wild desire to 
achieve self-development through joy, even at the cost 
6f effort. The most significant note of this state of feel- 
ing was given by one of the most gifted of these young 
men too early cut down, the author of “ Songs of the 
Sun and the Rain ” {Chants de la pluie et du soleil). 
He sang Bismarck on his black horse when what 
France needed was a Tyrtaeus, because her art re- 
quired a victor and that generation had had enough 
of defeat. “ My thought,” says his hero, “ dwells 
upon a loftier height than the petty morality of the 
multitude, — the height of a people’s future. ... As 
man I have created my personality by my passions ; as 
master I have built the great German Fatherland out 
of petty peoples.” It was a sort of Coriolanism run 
mad, contempt of the unhappy fatherland, rage that 
it was not foremost in rank among the nations. In 
a time of triumphant democracy these young men 
made proclamation of inequality, refused to merge 
themselves into the whole, to make common cause with 
others, preferring solitary ambition. Society was 
about to swarm with little supermen. 

These currents of feeling ran through all fields of 
study. More than any other the School of Letters 


30 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

- .tiL - 

felt the influence of intellectual anarchy. In the 
School of Law it was considered good form to take 
umbrage against Roman Law, its stern discipline, 
the wisdom of its progressive development by means 
of the social authority and restraint which it repre- 
sents. Our laws have already thrown open the gate- 
way of marriage and discovered the family. Let us 
enlarge the breach, and man will have to do only with 
a compliant state. 

Last of all, medical instruction had been modified 
by the scientific and official triumph of new doctrines. 
The bacteriological discoveries of Pasteur, liberating 
enthusiasm, had inspired an unbounded hope of appre- 
hending the absolute, though Pasteur himself with hu- 
mility recognized his limits. The microbe was about 
to give the solution of all the problems of pathology. 
Men abandoned the clinic for the laboratory, forsook 
the study of the sick person in whom the moral and the 
physical are united in a most complex whole. Sur- 
gery, thanks to methods of antisepsis, and especially 
of asepsis, suddenly entered upon a path of progress 
in which it was destined to advance with rapid pace. 
Each student claimed his part in science, declared 
former methods superannuated, rejected an appar- 
ently useless tradition, treated man like a piece of 
anatomy. A particle of analysis or of abstraction 
destined to power and enjoyment, the individual was 
once again separated from his antecedents, his envi- 
ronment, and the future of his race. He was isolated, 
he was free. 

From the year 1884, when, a raw student, he had ar- 
rived in Paris, to the year 1894, when, head of a clinic, 
he was at last about to enter the line of promotion, 
Pascal Rouvray had had his part in this glad unfolding 
of individualism which among the youth of the 
period had replaced the sadness and disillusionment 
of preceding generations. 


THE SUMMONS 


31 


The Cafe Manette forms the angle of the Rue des 
Ecoles and the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Its terraces 
were crowded. The declining light still consented 
to gild the idle hour before dinner. The Tour 
d’Ivoire crowd were enjoying the cool of evening, clus- 
tered round a beautiful girl in a light gown wearing 
upon her banded hair a little hat almost hidden under 
a huge cluster of wheat. Mimi Pinson promoted to 
the rank of Muse, poets and metaphysicians, budding 
romance writers, art critics endowed with infallibility, 
failures, and lovers of glory-to-be, were exchanging 
remarks, courteous, ironical or literary, while im- 
bibing iced drinks through a straw. It was one of 
the last groups of the sort, already passing out of 
existence, since men were no longer willing to fall into 
ranks. At other tables where gowns and dinner coats 
agreed together, they flirted, discussed, laughed too 
loud, but the French language was seldom heard with 
a foreign accent. There were hardly any Bohemians 
left. The fashion was already gone by, and already 
a uniform and convenient correctness of deportment 
and dress was beginning to hide all these fermenting 
desires. 

Pascal shook several outstretched hands, receiving, 
as he passed, congratulations on his last successful 
competition, and as he reached the stairs leading to the 
restaurant on the floor above he was accosted by the 
friend, for the time being, of his comrade Epervans : 

“ Monsieur Rouvray ? ” 

‘‘ Good evening, Lucette.” 

The girl would have possessed the childlike charm 
of all young girls who conceal their timidity behind 
a sort of effrontery, but for the bad taste of her too 
showy costume, the powder on her cheeks, and the 
carmine on lips already encircled by premature lines. 
She looked at the young man in silence. 


S2 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

“ Well! ” he asked, “ with Hubert still? ” 

“ Still.” 

“We are dining here this evening. Are you to be 
with us ? ” 

“ No, Hubert does n’t like women at the table.” 

“ Come up for dessert.” 

“ No.” 

She hurriedly added, half smiling, half complain- 
ing: “ You never come now. We never see you now. 
You put on your grand air with me. Does going 
with society women give you these airs ? It ’s not 
hard to please men when one has enough to eat 
every day.” 

He gently tried to pass her, for he knew what was 
coming. But one cannot stop a woman who is de- 
termined to speak her mind. 

“ With us at least one preserves his independence.” 

“ Lucette, Lucette I ” 

“ And besides, I don’t care for your Hubert. If 
you had wished — ” 

“ Child, it is too late.” 

Disappointed, she slipped away with the inaudible 
movement of a cat. He turned mechanically as he 
stood on the staircase to follow that embodiment of a 
care-free youth, not even yet aware that it would 
never return. 

He chose a table beside a window where one could 
almost touch the branches of the trees, and while wait- 
ing for his friends he made up the menu with the aid 
of the head waiter. As he raised his eyes to glance 
down to the sidewalk, he saw Chassal getting out of a 
cab and paying the coachman with a quick, careless 
gesture. The sight evoked a faint smile. Gossip 
would have it that the young man, who by an instinct 
of snobbery always came to the Manette in a carriage, 
took his cab at the Luxembourg on the Place Saint- 


THE SUMMONS 33 

Michel, arranged for the short drive by a modest 
sum, and then produced his effect. Sometimes it was 
a club coupe. 

He must have met Epervans as he came in, for they 
appeared together. Felix Chassal, slender, bony, 
delicate in health, had fine, regular features, a pointed 
blond beard, hair parted in the middle, the part con- 
tinuing down the back of his head, but the temples 
already bare. His delicate, distinguished air, as of 
one under a doctor’s care, usually gained for him 
the best place in a restaurant, the prompt offer of 
the bill of fare and priority of service. He was of 
those who once for all admit a certain age and never 
change. ^ 

Hubert Epervans, stout, red-faced, wore a beard 
around his chin by way of originality. He had the 
small cunning eyes of a horse-dealer and a short ges- 
tures of the forearm which made him resemble a j ovial 
American come to Paris on business, and enjoying it 
immensely. 

Pascal seated them and made them acquainted 
with the menu. Hubert expressed his satisfaction, 
consulting the wine list the while. His advice as to 
certain vintages was adopted, while Felix carefully 
wiped his glasses with his napkin, minutely inspected 
his plate, knife and fork, ordering one or another to 
be changed, after which series of operations he 
deigned to feel at ease. 

A broken-down old poet, an ancient Parnassian 
stranded in the Quarter, took possession of the 
neighboring table and was at once made the recipient 
of that respect, tempered with raillery, with which at 
that time every man of literary reputation was 
greeted. The manager, passing by, gave the order: 

“ All the relishes for the Master ! ” 

And the poor Master was promptly surrounded 
3 


34 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


with olives, anchovies, sardines and sausages, like a 
god in a cloud. Being of simple tastes, he ordered a 
potato salad. 

A little farther away some law students were 
noisily discussing the propriety of extending the 
rights of married women, especially to the products 
of their personal labor. 

One does not choose one’s intimates. Like love and 
often like death, they come by chance, or rather from 
obscure and far-off causes. A common origin had 
bound together, from the time of their arrival in Paris, 
the three young men who had now met to celebrate the 
success of one of their number. Isolation awakens 
the memory of the natal province; fellow students 
are grouped as often by regions as by schools and 
professional tastes. These three young men came 
from that part of Dauphiny where the foothills of 
the Alps extend themselves into the plains of the Ly- 
onnais like waves along the shore. Hubert Epervans 
was the son of a petty business agent of Bourgoin, an 
ex-schoolmaster transformed into an administrator of 
landed property. Always on the watch for sales, 
rentings, markets, he possessed a marvelous under- 
standing of the rural public and of a bargain. His 
experiences as a teacher had endowed him with such 
veneration for a diploma that he had urged his boy 
to take up the most expensive studies, and found him- 
self obliged to put pressure on his customers in order 
that the young Parisian should want for nothing. 
The recent origin of the family was evident in Hu- 
bert in an incredible faculty for work joined with 
the art of extracting pleasure and profit from every- 
thing, a love of acquisition, a desire to get possession 
of things, to leave nothing in the dishes, and also in a 
certain vulgarity of gesture emphasized by the dar- 
ing cynicism of his utterances. He was not restrained 


THE SUMMONS 


35 


by that delicate breeding which implies several gen- 
erations already refined and satisfied. Nevertheless, 
he inspired a very special sympathy. Industrious, 
hearty, exuberant, always building up projects, 
cut out to carry on the paternal combinations on 
a large scale, he pleased by a genius for organiza- 
tion, a constructive faculty to which he added a con- 
tagious optimism and much good fellowship. 

The more ancient family of Felix Chassal had is- 
sued from La Tour du Pin, but was only loosely 
connected with it. His grandfather had founded a 
banking-house in Lyons, and his father had had a 
career in diplomacy. He himself, dragged about as 
a child to foreign capitals, prematurely orphaned, 
and entrusted to selfish grandparents, made small ac- 
count of family affection or patriotic sentiments, to 
which by temperament he was little inclined, but 
which a utilitarian object might reanimate. He spoke 
several languages, possessed the ease which comes 
from travel, enjoyed a carefully managed fortune, 
of which no one knew the exact amount, was calcula- 
ing, clever and intentionally reserved. 

As for Pascal, he was descended from wealthy 
weavers of Voiron, who, in the course of ages, had 
come to be an almost aristocratic line. His father 
had been the first to leave the ranks of industry for 
a liberal profession. Of the same age within a year 
the ambitions of the three friends lay in parallel lines 
which forbade all competition. The flower of this 
new generation, which was ardent without generosity, 
rebellious against personal obligation, but ready for 
the fray provided it could be carried on in broken 
ranks, eager to live for themselves, violently if needs 
must, — they looked forward to win success in Paris, 
whose intense activity, the publicity of its reputa- 
tions, above all, its luxury, alertness and indepen- 


36 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


dence, were precisely to their taste. Yet they had 
chosen the longest road, that of the professional 
schools. At twenty-six or twenty-seven they were 
about to make their true beginnings. Pascal, the 
youngest head of a clinic in the Paris hospitals, and 
dreaming of a chair in the School of Medicine, after 
having passed exceptionally brilliant examinations 
was specializing in the study of nervous diseases, 
which the writings of Charcot and Duchenne de Bou- 
logne had brought out of the shadow. In his doctor’s 
thesis he had distinguished these from general pathol- 
ogy as did the greater number of his professors, a 
position protested by his father, one of the first 
practitioners of Lyons, who would not admit that 
there were water-tight partitions between diseases, 
more than between the physical and the moral parts 
of the nervous sufferer. His clear method of simpli- 
fication and analysis had won for Pascal reputation 
in his circle as one of the future masters of medical 
science, a fact of which he was by no means ignorant. 

The progress of his two comrades had been hardly 
less straightforward. The previous year Felix had 
completed the work necessary to the degree of 
Doctor of Laws and had published his thesis upon 
“ Professions Accessible to Women ” {Professions 
accessible aux femmes) in an elegantly made volume 
which had been well received by the press, and which 
had even procured for him the offer of a position 
upon the editorial staff of a fashion magazine. The 
era of femininism was dawning and he had been 
quick to perceive it. Entered at the bar, he had been 
recommended to the eminent barrister, Maitre Herve- 
Renard, ex-minister. Senator, of the veteran guard 
in politics, who had given him a position as his secre- 
tary. The young man was fully determined to make 
the most for himself of this conspicuous position. 


THE SUMMONS 


37 

Under an air of indolence and almost of disdain he 
concealed unrestrained ambitions, as he also sheltered 
his practical schemes under social theories in which 
he believed, with youth’s usual dexterity, in hiding 
desires behind ideas. He had early become aware of 
the superiority of which technical ability gives assur- 
ance in a complacently ignorant democracy, and he 
made himself an arsenal of information concerning 
political economy, legislation and finance. Having 
also recognized the advantage of holding extremely 
advanced opinions, he had unhesitatingly adopted 
them, being determined to succeed. A taste for dis- 
tinguished manners and for clever and accurate ex- 
planations brought him near his patron, a passionless, 
insolent and confident orator, and while girding on his 
armor he watched for his opportunity, the bar being 
for him only a provisional profession, a stepping- 
stone to his future career. 

On the day when he first set foot in Paris, Hubert, 
taking deep inhalations of the air of the capital, 
promised himself never to quit it. Received into the 
Ecole Polytechnique at the very limit of age, he had 
resigned at the close of the course, not wishing to 
become an artillery officer, and had passed his third 
year of study in an elective course in the School of 
Mines. He was not in the slightest degree interested 
in what goes on underground, but he knew that this 
sort of work is managed overhead by incorporated 
companies. He was always in need of money, for he 
loved wine, good cheer and the company of women, 
and he had long been in the habit of augmenting by 
tutoring the monthly allowance which his father, by 
the most stringent self-denial, managed to send him. 
Thus he formed connections of which he understood 
the mysterious manipulation. An easy fluency of 
speech enabling him to breathe life into the projects 


38 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


which he concocted, his art of juggling with figures 
had dazzled one of those promoters of business 
schemes of which there are so many^ in Paris. The 
latter proposed a stock company. Epervans should 
have the charge of plans and reports, his university 
titles would be as so many decorations. He, too, was 
on the way to win his game. 

“ Take care,” warned Pascal, amused by his en- 
thusiasm, yet protesting against his strictly utili- 
tarian ambition and instinctively wary of men of 
finance, “ Take care, that ’s a dangerous game for. 
you to play.” 

“ I love danger.” 

Not only habit, but self-interest, has its share in 
friendship. The three young men had not been slow 
to perceive their essential differences, and they en- 
joyed one another’s society all the more because of 
these differences, which stimulated thought and en- 
larged their horizon. Nothing is more undesirable 
at that age than to associate only with fellow class- 
mates. This is the inferiority of the Great Schools, 
the doors of which are closed, and in which all the at- 
tention and brain activity of the student is concen- 
trated upon scientific pursuits alone. They fall into 
an incurable habit of seeing their contemporaries 
only from the eyes upward, — a bad method of learn- 
ing to read faces. 

At the beginning of their intimacy they had agreed 
upon absolute openness, though Chassal was too un- 
communicative to adhere unreservedly to this pro- 
gram. That which bound them the most securely to 
one another was a common desire for the full devel- 
opment of their individuality. Here they were in 
perfect accord; one does not attain victory by dis- 
sipating one’s energies, and the best method of con- 
centrating to attain the maximum of energy is to 


THE SUMMONS 


make it one’s purpose to develop an ever greater and 
greater Me, ever more dominating and exacting. 

As the soup was being served, Pascal, recalling the 
conversation on the staircase, asked Hubert, “ Would 
you like me to invite Lucette.^* She is below.” 

“No, indeed! Women never know what they are 
eating.” 

The love affairs of Hubert Epervans, hastily en- 
tered upon, as is the wont of an impetuous tempera- 
ment which will take no counsel of prudence, never 
lasted long. Felix, more circumspect, more careful of 
his person, was at no trouble to deny the imputation 
of favors received in the fashionable world, which he 
assiduously frequented, recognizing the power of wo- 
men in a political circle less worn out and more self- 
confident than that of the old regime. The heroine 
of Pascal’s most important affair had been a little 
dancer from Bulliers, whose arms were less withered 
than her heart. An opportune engagement in some 
provincial Alhambra had separated them just when 
the young man was tired of her. The three young 
men seldom exchanged confidences on such subjects, 
and prized pleasure of this sort in inverse propor- 
tion to its accompanying sentiment. They agreed in 
claiming to be free men. Chains of any sort were 
odious to them, and pleasure, especially, ought to 
consent to none. 

Pascal had now forged his own, and for an indefi- 
nite time. Doubtless they were chains of gold, but 
would they be less heavy in the long run ? Marriage, 
as he understood it, his own marriage, was a volun- 
tary association, which would develop, not fetter, his 
powers. Moreover, it meant love to him, and how 
could the stimulus of love be anything other than the 
most magnificent liberty 

He would inform his friends by and by. How 


40 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

strange that they had suspected nothing! To him it 
seemed as if his happiness must be visible to every- 
body, embarrassingly so, even. More than once he 
had almost revealed his secret, but had been checked 
by a sort of bashfulness, by selfishness as well; how 
should not his joy be diminished when it was made 
common property? In the course of the dinner, how- 
ever, he spoke. 

“ I have a piece of news for you.” 

“You! You are in love!” shouted the perspica- 
cious Hubert, pouring out a glass of Burgundy which 
had too much bouquet to be authentic. 

Thus was Pascal’s confession made easy ; he had 
simply to admit his engagement. The news surprised 
his friends, and gave them no pleasure, since it prom- 
ised to interfere with their tastes and habits. 

“ My compliments,” murmured Felix, hardly mov- 
ing his lips. 

Hubert, franker and quicker to recover self-posses- 
sion, was not slow to manifest his discontent in his 
own characteristic way. 

“ And it ’s a marriage of inclination, as the saying 
goes ? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ More ’s the pity, more ’s the pity ! One must be 
incredibly brave to marry a woman one loves.” 

Waving off Felix, who would have checked him, he 
went on: 

“ Oh, I am heart-broken ! To begin with, no one 
who is good for anything should marry. Marriage 
always belittles, capitas diminution as you say in your 
law jargon. And if one must make such a blunder, 
the important thing is to marry ill.” 

“ What an idea ! ” protested the two others, reas- 
sured on finding him rushing into paradox. 

“ Certainly. A happy marriage engulfs one in fatal 


THE SUMMONS 41 

mediocrity. It is the end of a man. A good husband 
and father is a prisoner who will never be freed, 
because he enjoys his prison. But tell me of an 
unhappy marriage ! That is the salvation of the 
unlucky wights who have allowed themselves to be 
entrapped. It forces one to stand up for himself, to 
know himself, to keep himself to himself, and better 
still, to resort to cruelty, by quarrels, separation, di- 
vorce. To be cruel is to fathom one’s own depths. 
All great men have been unhappily married, and 
brutal.” 

He broke off with a venomous couplet casually re- 
called from an eccentric poet whom Paris had feted 
one day and forgotten the next, and who had fled 
back to the moors of his native Berri, to die insane : 

“ Flee the woman, fear the viper. 

For these two serpents are a pair.” 

“ Flee the woman ! ” repeated Felix, banteringly. 

Hubert accepted the allusion. 

“ Which signifies, accept her for what she is, the 
slave of our good pleasure. The essential thing is to 
permit her no influence.” 

“ One must renounce love, then.” 

“ That would be best. In any case, renounce per- 
manent attachments. In relations of the sexes, change 
is the condition of freedom.” 

As Pascal listened to the careless war of words, he 
regretted his confidence. Was there really nothing 
more than a well-spread table between him and his 
friends.^ He felt so remote from them. Are we al- 
ways thus left solitary when any deep thought takes 
hold of us.? 

Hubert roused him from his reflections by a ques- 
tion, which Felix, more reserved, had refrained from 
asking : 

‘‘ What I have said does n’t prevent my congratu- 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


lations, seeing it ’s your idea. May we know her 
name.^ ” 

Brought to the point, the young man hesitated. 
But why keep silence? It was no secret. He there- 
fore uttered the words which he loved to speak only 
for himself alone. 

“ Felix knows her. Mile. Laurence Aveniere.” 

“ Ah!” 

Felix did, in fact, know her. He was a visitor at 
her house, and the girl’s rare charm had impressed 
him, too, to such a point that he had instituted some 
inquiries, and had learned that Mr. Aveniere would 
not be eager to change his style of living to dower 
his daughter. She was to inherit from an aunt who 
was her godmother, and who persisted in living, in 
spite of old age and illness. Would such a marriage 
sufficiently promote his future career? Victim of his 
own hesitation, or rather, of his calculation, he had 
made no progress, and now Laurence’s engagement 
found him taken short. Nothing is more disagreeable 
than to find some one else doing the thing which we 
had had in mind to do. He kept his countenance, 
however. Hubert, who had seen Mile. Aveniere one 
evening at an official ball, but had not been intro- 
duced to her, was more expansive. 

“ Oh, oh ! I remember. She is dazzlingly fair.” 

It was inevitably the first word of praise which 
she inspired. Pascal heard it with displeasure. His 
friend’s praises of women were always somewhat dam- 
aging, but had never before struck him in so sensi- 
tive a spot. The silence which followed Hubert’s 
exclamation weighed heavily on his heart, and he won- 
dered more and more at the strange effect of his 
communication. 

For the second time Hubert’s exuberant gayety 
relieved the embarrassment of the trio. 


THE SUMMONS 


43 


“ Well, there you are with the rope around your 
neck! No more disinterested work, or bold experi- 
ments ! All over with the pride of living for one’s 
own sake. Society, relatives, pleasures, will lay their 
yoke upon you. You will be nothing more than a 
fashionable doctor.” 

Somewhat nettled, Pascal interrupted this sprightly 
discourse. 

“ You are mistaken. We have the same ambitions.” 

But his companion, once set agoing, was not to be 
stopped. 

“ And you are lost to us. To me, at least. Wives 
detest the friends their husbands had before marriage. 
And after marriage you will make no new ones. 
Felix will remain to you. He is proper, well dressed, 
well bred. And he, too, will marry into the republican 
aristocracy, as a means of becoming minister. I alone 
shall remain free.” 

The waiter brought champagne in a pail, and was 
serving the ice when a messenger came in with a tele- 
gram, which he handed to Pascal. The young man 
blushed like a girl, pleased to think that Laurence had 
hastened to send him a word. His two friends ex- 
changed a smile, understanding his embarrassment. 
He tore it open, read at a glance, turned pale and 
rose hastily, then sat down again, and in a strained 
voice said to the waiter: 

“ The Railway Guide, quick ! ” 

Destiny, after following him several hours, had at 
last touched him on the shoulder, obliging him to 
turn round. 

“ What is it.J^ ” asked Felix and Hubert in one 
voice. 

He handed them the blue slip. “ It is from my 
mother.” 

They read the words which each one of us reads 


M THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


once or twice in our lives, — words announcing death: 

Come at once, your father very ill. Marie.” 

“ My poor fellow ! ” 

Turning the pages, bracing himself against sorrow, 
he said in the dry tone which seeks to ward off pity : 

“ The nine o’clock express must be gone.” 

“ It is half past nine.” 

“ There ought to be a train about ten o’clock. 
With a good horse I may catch it.” 

“ I ’ll call a cab,” exclaimed Hubert, who put no 
trust in messengers, and who, in a time of trouble, 
felt the need of motion, change of scene. 

Pascal, remaining alone with Felix, continued his 
search. His sight was blurred, his fingers trembled. 

“ I can’t,” he exclaimed. 

“ Hand me the Guide,” said Chassal. 

No, no.” 

With a strong effort he commanded his nerves and 
turned the page. 

“ At twenty past ten. I have time enough.” 

‘‘ Have you money with you ? ” asked his practical 
companion. 

“ Yes, pay the bill for me, I ’ll make it right when 
I return. Oh, yes ! Will you let the Avenieres know 
to-morrow morning.'^ I was invited. I shall telegraph 
from Lyons, but it would be safer.” 

“ Of course, I ’ll go.” 

Hubert reappeared, panting and perspiring. The 
cab was at the door. Pascal and his friends went 
down. At the foot of the stairs they met Lucette, who, 
informed by Hubert in two words, was watching to 
express a sympathy which would not give offense. 

“ Mr. Rouvray,” she began, “ I am sorry — ^ ” 

“ Hush up ! ” said her lover. 

Pascal preferred to go alone in the cab, and was 
whirled rapidly away. The still air which fanned his 


THE SUMMONS 


45 


cheek as he passed, seemed softly consoling. Before 
him, at the end of the Boulevard Saint-Germain, the 
light of the long summer evening seemed to continue 
the day. Whither was he hastening? Toward hope, 
or toward his first sorrow? Vainly he searched his 
pockets for the letter, which, perhaps, contained his 
father’s last advice, and which he longed to read over 
in the train. He must have left it lying on the table. 
Then, his professional habits asserting themselves, 
he tried to analyze, at that distance, the disease which 
had fallen upon him, so far away. The letter spoke of 
a little weariness, of overwork, of trouble with the cir- 
culation. How should he interpret such vague symp- 
toms, which might equally well indicate angina pec- 
toris or a cerebral hemorrhage? There is still much 
mystery in our organism which we cannot foresee, 
shall perhaps never understand. Mechanically he 
called up his father’s features, his manner, his form 
a picture of strength, upon which he had always 
counted, which it seemed to him that he could recall 
in all its perfection, even at the moment of the first 
cloud between them. If only the cloud would not 
overshadow that personal happiness which all day 
long had overflowed his heart, as the golden sunlight 
overflows an enclosed garden! 

In silence Hubert and Felix resumed their seats at 
table. The sorrow which threatened Pascal had 
touched them in the best part of their friendship, 
but his departure brought some relief. We prefer 
that the woes of others should keep at a certain dis- 
tance, and not ask of us a too long sustained pity. 

“ I carried the ice away,” said the waiter. “ Shall I 
bring it now ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said Hubert. 

The champagne was uncorked, the glasses filled. 
Felix, grateful for Hubert’s decision, suggested. 


46 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

“ Invite Lucette.” 

“A good idea.” 

She was still in the coffee room, awaiting his orders. 
But to their great surprise she would neither eat nor 
drink. 

“ What ’s the matter with you.? ” 

“ I ’m unhappy,” and she began to weep. 

“ You don’t know,” explained Hubert. ‘‘ She is in 
love with Pascal.” 

“ That is not true ! ” she retorted. 

‘‘ I only suspected it — now I am sure. No matter, 
Pascal is going to be married. Take some of this ice, 
child. It is excellent, and it is he who provided it. 
It is too bad, what has happened to him, but we can’t 
help it.” 

For a moment she tried to refuse, but he insisted, 
and she was fond of good things. Stealthily, at 
first, she attacked the lovely rose and cream colored 
slice in her plate. Ceasing to observe her, Hubert 
leaned toward Felix Chassal and asked: 

“ Has she money. Mile. Aveniere.? ” 

‘‘ I suppose so,” replied the latter, evasively. “ At 
least, she will have, later.” 

“ So much the better, so much the better.” 

“ Why.? ” 

“ Our friend Pascal may find considerable difficulty 
with his father’s succession.” 

“ What do you know about it.? ” 

“ I know what I know.” 

At first he would say no more. Through his father, 
once schoolmaster at Bourgoin, and in touch with all 
the business of the region, he had learned that the 
affairs of the Rouvrays were involved, notwithstanding 
the doctor’s fine practice in Lyons. His information 
was fragmentary and obscure, yet, when Felix pressed 
him, he felt sure of the general state of things. 


THE SUMMONS 


47 


“ Does Pascal know? ” 

“Not at all. But what difference does it make? 
He will get out of the muddle. When one is the first 
of his generation, he has a duty to himself. One 
does n’t permit his career to be spoiled by a mistaken 
sense of obligation. In case of need we are here to 
remind him.” 

“ Of course.” 

“ And besides, there is his marriage.” 

“His marriage?” repeated Pelix, and Laurence’s 
ambiguous smile arose distinctly before him. 

While his affairs were being thus settled, Pascal, 
standing in the passage-way of the express train, 
pressing his brow against the window-pane, motion- 
less, unseeing, not yet on an even footing with grief, 
was hastening to his dead. 


in 


THE TWO PATHS 

Beyond the mountain range of the Grande Char- 
treuse Dauphiny reaches out, as if longingly, toward 
Lyons. The Alps sink down, but it is not yet the 
plain. In the shelter of the wooded foothills nestles 
a valley at once wild and pleasant, a peaceful retreat. 
The little lake of Paladru adds to its attractions as 
a halting place, its waters mirroring the verdure on 
its shores, giving a delightful suggestion of repose. 
At its southern extremity cluster the few yellow- 
washed habitations of the hamlet of CoUetiere, a de- 
pendent of the village of Charavines. Close by, half 
hidden among the trees of a considerable enclosure, 
is the spacious country-house of the Rouvrays, lying 
between the mountain, the reeds and the Fure, which 
serves as the outlet of the lake. 

The Paladru region is near Voiron, the early home 
of the Rouvrays, who had long carried on the busi- 
ness of silk-weaving by hand, and later by machinery. 
One of the first signs of their prosperity, genera- 
tions ago, had been the acquisition of this property 
for a vacation home. CoUetiere had been the cradle 
of the family, and they had remembered it. When 
the doctor, installed at Lyons, came to settle up the 
business of his fathers, after several centuries, he 
kept none of their property at Voiron, but retained 
the country-house for the health of his children and 
the maintenance of the ties that bound him to his past. 


THE TWO PATHS 


49 


All his dead lay in the graveyard behind the church 
of Charavines, and in a testamentary note he had 
asked to be buried there. 

At sixty years of age, in the fullness of his intel- 
lectual powers, he had been struck down by a cerebral 
hemorrhage, the symptoms of which he had never 
thought of noticing, occupied as he was with the ills 
of others, and accustomed to take no thought of his 
own health, which had never caused him the smallest 
anxiety. According to his desire, his mortal remains 
were carried to Dauphiny for burial. After the 
funeral Mme. Rouvray expressed a desire to remain 
for a time at Colletiere, withdrawn from those duties 
and associations which, after such a shock, it is 
so hard for a person of deep feeling to resume. 
They would be happier there, nearer to him who 
was gone. In this peaceful half-solitude they would 
find good counsel for their future plans. Pascal con- 
sented, holding in reserve a project more in accord 
with the state of his heart. Thus, for a time, he 
lived shut up to the companionship of his mother, 
who had always been reserved and almost timid with 
him, and of his sister and brother, Claire and Gerard, 
whose almost defiant intimacy kept him somewhat 
at a distance. 

Every day he received a well-written, comforting 
letter from his betrothed. She had not come to the 
funeral, as he had expected, and her absence had 
greatly disturbed him. Far from offering any ex- 
cuse, she called upon him to return to Paris, re- 
proaching him for his absence as for a neglect. “ I 
expect you,” she would write. He could not leave so 
soon. Why not ask his mother to invite the Avenieres 
to her country-house? It was, indeed, very soon to 
force the sight of their happiness upon her, but ought 
she not to meet her new daughter? 

4 


50 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

Yet he hesitated. He found himself called to play 
a part which he had never studied — that of elder 
brother. Circumstances had made him the only 
child for nearly twelve years; a long illness of his 
mother had created this interval between his birth and 
that of his sister. Separated from the family by 
his studies, his ambition and his success, he had been 
entirely absorbed in his own personal life. If, dur- 
ing the vacations which he spent at home, he had 
shown the younger children a somewhat protecting 
and condescending affection, they had always been 
reserved with him, had enlarged the distance between 
him and themselves, and showed no desire that “the 
doctor,” as they ironically called him, should take 
any part in their amusements. 

It was quite time to make plans for the future. 
There were arrangements to make for his settling in 
Paris, the date of his marriage to fix. If Laurence 
were not soon invited to Colletiere, she would be gone 
to Normandy, the family being in the habit of passing 
the summer at the seashore. Furthermore, he had no 
idea how far his father’s death might have modified the 
family circumstances. Though in his home he had 
been accustomed, not to luxury, which his mother 
sedulously avoided, but at least to that generous ease 
which indicates an established future, he had no idea 
how large a part was due to his father’s large prac- 
tice, nor whether it would be necessary to change a 
style of living which was no longer indispensable. Of 
course, there was in his thought no question as to the 
family comfort. But the fine apartment in the Quay 
Tilsitt, beside the sluggish and fitful Saone, with its 
monumental entrance, its high ceilings, its long win- 
dows and its balconies facing the Fourviers hill and 
overlooking the river with all its life of passenger- 
boats, barges, tows, often with sea-gulls hovering 


THE TWO PATHS 


51 


overhead, — the rent of such an apartment must be 
high, and his mother would not be averse to leaving 
it, now that the happy years there passed had come 
to an end. At the same time, he thought his mother 
would wish to dispense with the coachman and foot- 
man, who had been necessary to a physician whose 
practice brought him more than sixty thousand francs 
a year. He had heard the figure mentioned, and had 
been astonished at the incessant activity which his 
father had never spared himself. Finally, it was im- 
portant to decide as to completing the education of 
Claire and Gerard. 

He resolved to broach all these questions to his 
mother. One evening, after the early retirement of 
his brother and sister, he prepared to put certain 
questions to her. She had gone out, after dinner, on 
her daily pilgrimage, and on her return she had 
made the somewhat mysterious remark: 

“ You do not yet know your father. You will 
know him — ” 

He observed how necessary it was that he should 
understand everything. She immediately replied : 

“ Yes, you ought. All these days I have not dared 
to open the subject to you. I have waited for you 
to speak.” 

Then he asked his first question : “ Did father leave 
a will.?*” 

‘‘No, but some memoranda. It is the same thing 
to us. They were made not long ago. I know 
what they are, but you do not. I will bring them. 
Do you read them, and afterward we will talk. I 
want you to learn the truth from him. You will 
understand better.” He was disturbed by the enig- 
matic words, and a sort of intensity in the voice and 
manner of his usually calm mother. She came back 
with an envelope, and handing it to him, said: 


52 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“Read and reflect by yourself. I will come back 
soon ; I shall not be far away.” 

What could all this mean.? The manuscript with 
its familiar upright handwriting included only a few 
sheets, but it contained enough completely to dis- 
compose the young man. It was the very simple 
statement of a problem often to be met with in old 
families, but which admits of more than one method 
of solution. 

In the long run prosperity almost inevitably begets 
mistakes, negligences or oversights. One generation 
may undo the work of a whole line of ancestors who 
had built up the patrimony, created and strengthened 
the prestige of the name. During two or three cen- 
turies the Rouvrays had been building up their silk- 
weaving industry, increasing its importance, until 
the last weaver, the father of the doctor, Pascal’s 
grandfather. He was a good-hearted, shallow, im- 
provident man, “happy-go-lucky” as the peasants 
say. Nothing could disturb his optimism. He was 
always joking, kept open house, cultivated all sorts 
of expensive pleasures. In his house at Voiron he 
gave many dinners and excellent ones, the luxurious 
character of which, indeed, would have caused the 
hair of earlier generations of Rouvrays to stand on 
end; he had fishing in the Lake of Paladru, shoot- 
ing and himting in the woods around Colletiere, 
where at that time a sea of foliage covered the ruins 
of the Chartreuse of Sylve-Benite, the shooting and 
upkeep of which he had leased in order to command 
the very heart of the forest. When his wife pro- 
tested at the extravagance, he would reply with a 
jest. Silenced, she withdrew her opposition and 
claimed her share of this extravagance, in fine clothes. 
The fortune which had been so carefully amassed 
during so many years ran away like a torrent at all 


THE TWO PATHS 


53 


these fissures. Then came a crisis in the silk indus- 
try, followed by sudden changes in business methods ; 
no more, as in the old days, open bargaining, ample 
credit, loyal competition, but a life and death 
struggle, time limits in filling orders, rejection of 
everything not precisely according to contract and 
delivered at the time agreed upon. 

The manuscript laid stress upon general causes, 
and passed lightly over personal faults which Pascal 
guessed at all the better for his long past memories. 
A badly managed industry is on the rapid road to 
ruin, and in industrial concerns ruin soon takes on 
the proportions of a catastrophe. On the death of 
his father, twenty years previously. Dr. Rouvray 
had found himself face to face with disaster. A 
balance sheet prepared by his notary, at his request, 
showed that the debts far exceeded the assets. 
Should he accept or refuse the succession.^ To re- 
fuse would be to compromise the interests of many 
families in Voiron, well known to him, who from 
time immemorial had placed confidence in the Rou- 
vrays. But was it possible for him to accept? His 
wife had inherited only a small fortune, a hundred 
and fifty or two hundred thousand francs, and this 
little patrimony he was resolved not to touch, notwith- 
standing her entreaties. He consented, however, to 
make use of it, safeguarding her interests by an in- 
surance on his life and a lien on the Colletiere prop- 
erty, which he desired to keep, although it brought 
in only an uncertain two or three thousand francs 
a year; as to the surplus of the debts, he arranged 
with the creditors to pay them off by annual dividends, 
from the income of his practice. This plan he had 
carried out. The memoranda showed the condition 
of things at each annual settlement. The last one 
showed that in twenty years four hundred thousand 


54 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


francs of a debit account of half a million had been 
extinguished. 

The exclamation which broke from Pascal’s lips, as 
he concluded the reading of this document, was 
rather one of wrath than of admiration of his father’s 
heroism. His mother, — where was his mother He 
must see her at once — he needed the light which she 
might throw upon this incomprehensible past. He 
opened the door which led to a glass conservatory, 
empty of plants at this season, where she loved to 
sit, crying out in distress. 

‘‘ Mamma ! ” 

She was there, on her knees, praying. She rose 
and came to her son, whose anguish she divined. 
Pascal’s first word was almost an accusation. 

“ Why did father keep all this from me.^ ” 

She had often asked herself the same question. 
Perhaps she had asked it of him who was gone. She 
knew the answer: 

“ He would not disturb your studies by a feeling 
of insecurity, an idea that you must make haste.” 

“ I never suspected a thing.” 

“ That was his wish ; he wanted to give you the 
opportunity — I remember his expression — to reach 
your maximum of power. I think he wore himself 
out trying to make sure for you a happy youth. 
He used to assure me that there was time for it all.” 

‘‘ He used to assure you — in what connection ? ” 

“ When I begged him to let you know. Sonietimes 
I was afraid of your independence, of all the ideas 
which you cherished apart from us.” 

“ And what would he say to you ” 

That all such things were simply the manifesta- 
tion of youthful strength, that it would eventually 
be disciplined, that when the time came you would 
prove to be all that he and I could desire. He trusted 


THE TWO PATHS 


55 


in you, trusted in his own health and courage, in 
the future, in Providence. And we have lost him so 
soon ! ” 

Pascal was no longer listening. A comparison had 
been borne in upon him with invincible clearness. 
While he had been enjoying all the fullness of bright, 
untrammeled youth, left in perfect freedom to reach 
his “ maximum of power,” his father, providing all 
the means necessary to this end, was wearing himself 
out in a nameless struggle, which, with a less strict 
sense of honor — that of the new school — he might 
have shirked. The emotion which swept over him 
found expression in a single word : 

It is unjust.” 

“ I used to say so,” answered the mother. “ He 
ought to have shared his cares with you, associated 
you in his effort. You might have shortened your 
hospital work, taken your doctorate sooner, begun 
to practice.” 

But he protested against such an abbreviation of 
his studies: 

“ I should have lost some important years. I 
should never have become what I am.” 

‘‘ You would have helped us.” 

Their words unconsciously betrayed their different 
conceptions of life. She added: 

“ He counted upon a few years more to work him- 
self free. He could already foresee the end. But 
we do not finish our work in this world. Happily, 
there is another life.” 

Pascal, who had no such belief,' respected that of 
his mother. Mme. Rouvray continued: 

“ He would never rest. I used to look forward so 
impatiently to the day when he would lay down his 
burden, when the two children would be educated. 
With what peace, with what happiness I meant to 


56 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


surround his declining years! I cared so little for 
the ample mode of life which we led, which, in spite 
of ourselves, our position required. He loved the 
country, and yet he could spend so few days here! 
He shed happiness all around him, and kept all the 
troubles for himself. We have had no time to repay 
him what we owe him.” 

For a moment their thoughts traveled together. 
He broke the silence to put some precise questions: 

“ How much is his life insurance ” 

“ A hundred thousand francs. It was to fall due 
this very year. It is in my name. I will draw it 
whenever you please.” 

“ What have we, all told.? ” 

“ Precisely my fortune. He insisted upon leaving 
it intact, though I begged him to use it in case he fell 
short.” 

“ He was right; the debts came from his father.” 

‘‘ Between husband and wife nothing is separate. 
The most that I could prevail upon him to do was 
to take it and make it good by this insurance policy 
and this property, which also is worth a hundred 
thousand francs.” 

“ How much does it bring in.? ” 

“The farm rents for three thousand, besides the 
payments in kind. But our good Ferrand is often 
in arrears.” 

“ And how much remains to be paid.? ” 

“ You must have seen on the last accounting. I 
wanted to speak to you about that very thing. The 
insurance would cover it. We will take it for that, 
shall we not .? ” 

“ That would be contrary to my father’s wish.” 

“ There is no other way.” 

Pascal reflected before replying. His mother was 
offering, without hesitation, the entire disposable 


THE TWO PATHS 57 

part of her personal fortune to complete the payment 
of the Rouvrays’ debts. Could it be permitted? 

“ You will have nothing left,” he said, “ nothing 
but this land.” 

“ If I were alone I would gladly live here. I have 
been happy here. In fact, the only days that were 
entirely our own were those we passed here. The 
cemetery and the church lie together, and I have them 
both close by. For the rest, very little is necessary.” 

He hesitated before speaking all his thought, but 
this was not the time to keep anything back. 

“ It would be possible to put Colletiere into the 
market,” he said cautiously. “ In small lots land 
brings high prices, it appears.” 

Her countenance took on an added shade of grief, 
of alarm. 

“Will you not keep Colletiere? It is the cradle 
of the family.” 

Like a faithful household guardian, she was defend- 
ing the visible heritage of the Rouvrays, that which 
represented the solidarity of past generations. It was 
now her turn, as he had set the example, to open to 
him all her hope. 

“ As for you, our work is done, but I am concerned 
about Claire and Gerard. In his rare moments of 
anxiety your father used to depend upon your help- 
ing them in case of need.” 

“ He told you that ? ” 

“ Yes, to comfort me, when I was feeling that you 
were growing away from us.” 

And drawing close to him, as if to transmit to 
him that sacred memory in all its integrity, she went 
on, almost entreatingly ; 

“ Try to understand the meaning of your father’s 
whole life. He arrested the downfall of his family. 
He prevented our ancient and honorable name from 


58 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


being tarnished or humbled. And no one can measure 
the energy and the charity which, in his profession, 
he imparted to every one, with all his knowledge. No 
one, except I. For ten years I was an invalid. For 
ten years he cheered me, day by day. Nothing in 
the world, Pascal, requires more courage, more self- 
forgetfulness, than to overcome a daily sorrow in 
one’s own home, and untiringly, uninterruptedly im- 
part to another the strength to live.” 

She, who sought only to efface herself, became en- 
thusiastic while she talked. A flame of undying love 
and fidelity lit up her emaciated features. Yet Pas- 
cal could not hear, without inward revolt, this eulogy 
of the so-called virtue, self-forgetfulness. 

“ And how proud he was of you ! ” she added. 

He recalled the last letter he had received from 
him. It had twice irritated him, and he interposed. 
“ He did not like my thesis.” 

“Not quite that, but he thought — *1 don’t know, 
myself, — that in nervous diseases you did not take 
enough account of the differences between patients, 
nor of moral causes.” 

“ That is not the purpose of a thesis.” 

“ I don’t know. He had lived more deeply than 
you, he could see more clearly.” 

What was the use of discussing a matter on which 
he felt sure of his ground, but of which, at such 
a time, he could not speak without wounding his 
mother’s feelings, without wounding himself in his 
filial respect, still suffering and susceptible.? There 
remained the other part of the letter. 

“ And my marriage ? How did he receive that 
news ? ” 

Mme. Rouvray was silent. The allusion to his 
engagement recalled her to another sorrow. Bearing 
her full part in the struggles required by the situa- 


THE TWO PATHS 


59 


tion of the family, she, too, had suffered from Pascal’s 
unexpected conclusion of such a matter, without even 
consulting his parents, especially from his announce- 
ment of it, as the most natural thing in the world, 
after their persistent efforts to enlarge the scope of 
his life. He had been thinking only of himself, had 
not looked behind him at his aging father, his young 
brother and sister, whose path would perhaps not 
be made smooth for them, as his had been. For the 
first time the doctor had felt his paternal confidence 
shaken. 

She dared say not a word of all this. Pascal would 
no doubt be still more grieved if he were to learn that 
he had grieved his father at the very time when death 
was already knocking at his door. As she kept silence 
he insisted, dwelling in unconscious egotism on the joy 
which the announcement of his engagement ought to 
have caused in his home. At last she gave him an 
evasive answer. 

‘‘ We did n’t know your betrothed. We desired 
your happiness.” 

He hastened to improve the opportunity. 

“ Would you like me to ask her to come here for a 
few days, with M. and Mme. Aveniere.? You would 
get acquainted with her best that way. You will love 
her.” 

A shadow passed across Mme. Rouvray’s brow. 
Must she so soon receive strangers — this unknown 
young girl.?^ Must she so soon put aside her absorb- 
ing memories, in which she found comfort, as in a last 
meeting with her dead? Her son required it of her. 
He could take up his life again, he ought to do so. 
She would not refuse. But another obligation, of 
which he was ignorant, was still weighing upon her. 

“ Do so,” she assented, without showing the dejec- 
tion which she felt. “ Do you invite them for me. 


60 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


Aunt Sophie will wait. She had thought to come 
from Grenoble at the end of the week.” 

It was an older sister, who, from the beginning, 
had spent the summer months at Colletiere. 

“ Oh, she can wait,” he answered pettishly. ‘‘ She 
stays long enough every year.” 

“ If she comes every year, it is because she needs 
to. Her son Edward ruined her, — didn’t you 
know.? ” 

“ Ah,” he murmured, without saying more. 

He had never reflected upon this state of things. 
Now, at least, he was becoming tardily aware of an 
overburdened life, the load upon which he had never 
suspected, but which death had now revealed. Had he 
not received, only two evenings before, letters from two 
poor relations, an invahd cousin, a poverty-stricken 
second cousin, who begged of him — demanding, in- 
deed, almost as a right — the same assistance which 
they had been receiving from his father Death had 
not deterred them; life has other necessities than 
death. And had he not been called, with no possibility 
of refusing, to give gratuitous services, medicines in- 
cluded, to a working man employed in the paper 
mills of Chara vines who had been injured by the 
machinery.'* The peasants of the neighborhood came 
to consult him, as they had flocked hither in his 
father’s time. The vision rose up before him of a 
great tree covering a whole region with the protec- 
tion of its branches. The defeated, the unfortunate, 
sought its shadow, took shelter under it, as dependents 
seek shelter under a protector. The tree had fallen ; 
should a branch undertake to fill its place? All this 
large circle, being in need, hoped in him, imperi- 
ously called upon him. But did Pascal owe himself 
to these people, for whom he felt nothing more than 
the most profound indifference, simply because he 


THE TWO PATHS 


61 


was the son of such a man? The country-side had 
long lived upon the Rouvrays. His ancestors, indeed, 
might give away their fortune — it existed; but his 
father had been exploited, and through weakness or 
a false sense of honor, he had submitted to systematic 
spoliation. No, no, he would not carry on so absurd 
a tradition. Where would you find a race which 
successful enterprises had placed in the foremost 
social rank, keeping its obligations when resources 
failed! Let every one live his own life! It had 
pleased him who was dead to admit exorbitant de- 
mands ; he, at least, would assume no useless burden. 
His own aim in life laid it upon him to cast off such 
encumbrances. He was not going to weaken himself 
by thus dissipating his interests. He would be him- 
self, not a reflection of the past. He had sworn it 
to himself, and he would keep his oath, come what 
might. 

Thus was he working himself up to a resolution of 
personal defense while his mother believed him to be 
thrilling with filial piety. He was awakened to the 
present by her question : 

“ What shall you do ? ” 

He replied bitterly, “ Why, I shall go to Paris, to 
make room for Aunt Sophie.” 

How far they were from understanding one another ! 

“ That is not what I meant,” replied his mother 
sadly. “ On the contrary, I should love to know your 
fiancee.” 

“ It is best that I go to Paris. I have matters 
to arrange there.” 

‘‘ In order to leave it ? ” 

He gazed at the poor woman in surprise. 

“ In order to leave it ! What are you thinking 
about, mamma? In order to settle there. I have been 
appointed head of a clinic. I must choose an apart- 
ment with Laurence, and furniture.” 


62 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


‘‘Ah,” she said. 

And taking her courage by both hands, she, habitu- 
ally so reserved, so timid, found strength to confess at 
last the plan that she had in mind, and which, since 
the beginning of the conversation, she had not dared 
to broach. 

“ I had hoped that perhaps you would settle in 
Lyons after your marriage. No doubt you would 
soon recover the best part of your father’s practice. 
He was much thought of, and among us people are 
very faithful. Your successes in Paris would help 
and you would succeed before long. Then you would 
complete the work which we have been carrying on 
there twenty years. If you return this would be 
possible. If you don’t return — ” 

She did not finish the sentence. The project which 
she had formulated in a choked voice had passed 
through his own mind, but without being welcomed 
there, since it would have thwarted his dreams of 
a career, and he felt sure would be contrary to 
Laurence’s wish. He hastened, therefore, to reject 
it with disdain. 

“ I must live my own life.” 

How stern the words sounded on his lips! To 
soften their effect he added, more sympathetically: 

“ Don’t be troubled. I will watch over you from 
there, and over Claire and Gerard. I shall not neglect 
you.” 

But his stem decision still echoed in her ears. 

“ Yes, you have your life to live. Your father had 
his, too.” 

He would fain have held to his decision without 
wounding the poor woman who had thought to lean 
upon him. 

“ See here, I ’ll think it over ; I ’ll speak to Lau- 
rence about it.” 


THE TWO PATHS 


63 


Laurence,” she repeated doubtfully. “ Perhaps 
it would be better not to reveal our family difficulties. 
Your father kept the secret.” 

“ Still, I ought to tell M. Aveni^re. It would be 
no more than loyal.” 

“ Then be sure to make clear to him the cause of 
our indebtedness.” 

She was thinking of safeguarding her husband’s 
reputation. 

‘‘ Don’t be afraid, mamma, Laurence is generous. 
No doubt her parents have their own ways of thinking. 
But she will have a large fortune, — not now, not in 
the beginning, but later. That, too, is of importance 
to our family.” 

Though still apprehensive, Mme. Rouvray said no 
more. This conversation had not revealed in her elder 
son that sense of obligation to protect the younger 
members of the family which she had expected from 
his father’s example, and she felt more keenly than 
ever the sadness of widowhood, the chill of a solitude 
which finds one all unprepared, after so many years 
of a shared life, and the bitterness of which she could 
not have imagined. Pascal went on with his own 
thoughts. 

“ It is best to have done with uncertainty at once. 
I shall go to Paris to-morrow. We will fix upon the 
date of our marriage. On my return we will decide 
how to arrange your future life.” 

“ Wait a few days,” she said. “We need to lean 
on one another. We seem to be so weak now.” 

But he himself was conscious of all the strength 
of youth. 

“ Why should we wait.? ” 

“ You are free,” she said, yielding, “ free to choose. 
May God guide your choice. Good night, Pascal. It 
is late, and I want to pray again.” 


64 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


She kissed him and went away. She being gone, his 
heart, touched in spite of himself, repeated to him 
the word “ choose.” But was not his choice already 
made ? 

To relieve the oppression that weighed upon him, 
he pushed open the half-closed window which opened 
upon the garden. Of late, it had been more or less 
neglected, yet some rare plants still remained from the 
earlier days, syringas, tuberoses, magnolias, with their 
heavy white flowers like doves just alighted, fllled the 
air with perfume. The moonlight gave the pale land- 
scape the character of daylight ; the little lake, reflect- 
ing back its beams, lighted up the shadowy lines of the 
valley and the confused masses of the woods of Sylve- 
Benite and Du Pin on its opposite shores. Not a 
movement in the branches, not a ripple on the water 
gave sign of life. From the sleeping landscape, from 
the old neglected garden, emanated a profound, an in- 
finite peace, which was not that of death, yet which 
breathed the calm of death and something of its 
majesty. 

There was a bench before the house, and Pascal sat 
down upon it. In the silence he could have heard 
the grass grow, if possible. It was here that his 
father, in his vacations, loved to enjoy the evening 
and the drawing on of night, with its peace. His 
father! It was, perhaps, in this very place that 
twenty years earlier, looking out upon the same tran- 
quillity of field, lake and forest, his father had been 
called like him to make his choice, after measur- 
ing the extent of the family disaster. He may have 
felt upon his cheek the same cool caress of the air 
which now breathed upon his brow. 

I Choose! With what softening influences had his 
father taken counsel, that long-past day.?* Was not 
his own goal unmistakably set before him? To follow 


THE TWO PATHS 


65 


the personal destiny which beckoned him smiling, to 
make a marriage which at once answered the desire of 
his own heart and the call of his ambition, to settle in 
Paris, achieve success, attain reputation and honor by 
laboratory work and lectures, — this alone was im- 
portant. In time his family would reap the benefit 
of his advancement. But he must neither pause nor 
slacken his pace. Why not refuse the burden of this 
succession, the very thought of which weighed so 
heavily? Had not enough been already paid to wipe 
out the old Rouvray debts? Where was the use of 
bleeding himself, of burdening himself with such cares ? 
Who would thank him for such a self-immolation? 
Yes, his mother should have the whole that belonged 
to her. Colletiere should be sold — this dilapidated 
house, that neglected garden overrun with weeds, those 
fields and meadows beyond, — and the proceeds, 
more satisfactorily invested, would bring an income 
which would provide for the education of Claire and 
Gerard. But — would she consent? Was not she 
consumed with a desire for self-sacrifice? That was 
the dark spot, the obstacle. Yet he was the eldest, 
his opinion ought to prevail. 

All the while that he was coming to this resolution 
memories of his childhood were awakening, rising to 
him in the overpowering odor of the flowers. It had 
been so happy, with that healthy happiness which is 
known only by those who have spent their childhood 
in the country. The spirit of his parents had sur- 
rounded without restraining it, as that hardly visible 
line of shrubbery shut in the garden without appear- 
ing to do so, uniting it with the greenery beyond. 
What was that spirit saying to him now? Why did it 
pervade everything before him, subtly making itself 
felt in the immaculate calm of the waters, the woods. 


5 


66 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


the sky, becoming a part of the long blue night, the 
more perfectly to enter into his heart ? 

As a road, vague at first in the moonlight, becomes 
distinct while one gazes upon it, so another way grad- 
ually showed before him: to come back and bury 
himself in Lyons, gather up his father’s practice, 
walk in the path he had traced, be merely a continu- 
ator, a successor, finish paying off the debts, educate 
Gerard, marry Claire. It was another career, not 
brilliant, unalluring — a descent, nothing less. And 
would Laurence accept it? She had not come to the 
funeral, she had not taken this opportunity to occupy 
her post as the betrothed daughter of the house. Her 
letters were consoling, reassuring, fascinating. How 
could he inflict upon her such a change of plan, so 
little in conformity with her tastes, with the promises 
they had exchanged? No, no, he must think no more 
of it. 

The place, however, was an unfortunate one for a 
decision of this kind. Was not this the cradle of the 
family? The very land seemed to rise up inoppor- 
tunely to oppose his absence, his desertion, to set itself 
against his well-planned future. Here seasons and 
men succeed one another. The individual, by himself 
alone, is of no more importance than one seed of the 
field, — the race alone counts, like the totality of 
the ears of wheat, 

Pascal rose hastily from his bench, as if he felt 
the cold. How foolish to stay so long in the night air ! 
He went in hastily, looked to the fastening of doors 
and windows, as if the better to separate himself from 
the country outside, and sought his chamber. He 
could best regain his self-possession between four 
walls, sheltered from the suggestions, the witchery of 
nature. 


IV 


THE ONWARD MARCH 

“ MLiiE. Laueence is in the garden.” 

The Aveni^res occupied in rue Desbordes-Valmore, 
in quiet and suburban Passy, a villa somewhat back 
from the street, from which it was divided by a high 
iron fence covered with ivy. Its porch overrun with 
clematis, and its small-paned, arched windows gave it 
an air of distinction. Behind the house, sheltered 
from the noises of the street, was a garden where the 
birds sang. One might imagine oneself far from the 
city, and yet one feels the presence of Paris ; the trees 
are sickly, the vines reveal the walls they are meant 
to hide. The houses are too near, and even the birds, 
too well fed, hardly care to sing. It is an imitation 
country-seat, a make-believe solitude. 

Pascal went down the hall, seeking his betrothed. 
He had arrived that morning from Dauphiny, still 
feeling the wounds of his first opposition to his 
mother’s will, ending in the refusal of his father’s 
succession, and was hastening to his love, his refuge. 
The young girl, wearing a thin dress, was sitting in 
a willow chair, occupied with Felix Chassal, who, 
standing before her, was taking his leave. Smiling, 
her pearly teeth half revealed, she appeared to be 
happy in breathing the sweet air of the lovely, late 
June day, gratefully humid before the parching heat 
of summer. Pascal, who saw her face in profile, gazed 
on her for a moment with aching heart, her white 


68 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


nape and her complexion recalling to his mind the 
magnolias of Colletiere. How entirely we seem to 
be forgotten when our presence is unrecognized ! 
Chassal, absorbed in leave-taking, did not see him. 
It was she who first perceived him, and without be- 
traying the least surprise, with her finished art 
of adaptation to circumstances, she instantly took 
on an expression of compassionate sadness, as she 
rose and moved toward him : 

My friend, my dear friend ! ” 

Felix blushed, as if in fault, and began to account 
for his presence. 

“ I came for the very purpose of inquiring after 
you. I felt sure I should hear the latest news of 
you here.” 

And before departing, he added : “ When shall I 

see you? Come and take lunch with Hubert and me.” 

“ And what of me ? ” exclaimed Laurence, adding 
immediately, ‘‘ But you ’ll come back early this after- 
noon and will remain to dinner. Thus we can keep 
you the longer.” 

With a feeling of helplessness, Pascal permitted 
them to plan his day. Chassal having gone, she came 
and sat beside him, entered into his sorrow, sympa- 
thized tenderly with him, her very sadness bringing 
consolation. How, at twenty, could she show such 
insight, make so happy a choice of words? Even 
while her lavished consolations assuaged his pain, he 
was filled with admiring wonder. Pie gazed upon 
her with eyes more than ever seeing. Grief disarms 
us, gives us over defenseless to the charms of beauty, 
of grace. Only one who is crushed values love at its 
full price; yields himself wholly to it, desperately, 
without thought of consequences. The successful 
love with insolence, have nothing to fear from the 
weakness of flesh or heart. Thus he gazed upon her 


THE ONWARD MARCH 


69 

as if in ecstasy. She, feeling herself to be adored, 
experienced that joy of domination, so valued by 
those to whom pride is a well-spring of life. 

“ Your eyes are dearer to me now that they have 
wept,” she murmured softly. She could the better 
see in them the reflection of the passion which she 
inspired. 

He affectionately reproached her for her absence. 

‘‘ Why did you not come to Lyons ? ” 

She found no embarrassment in answering: 

“We were not yet officially engaged. I could not 
form one of your family procession. Was it not bet- 
ter to leave your mother entirely to her grief, without 
imposing upon her an unfamiliar presence.? I waited 
for you here, postponing our removal to the seashore 
till your return. You will go with us, will you not.? ” 

As she spoke, her words seemed those of wisdom, 
prudence, delicacy itself. Her absence appeared per- 
fectly natural. And yet is there not a love which holds 
cheap all worldly proprieties and conventions for the 
sake of the consolation it may give.? Pascal was not 
in a condition to consider the question. Laurence, 
sitting near him, had taken his hand and carried it 
to her cheek, completing his subjugation. He was 
about to thank her for having waited for him at 
Paris, when M. and Mme. Aveniere, notified of his 
arrival, came out to them. 

M. Aveniere was a well-made, fresh-colored man 
of some fifty years, with a well-trimmed beard which 
he wore with an air of complacency, and which, being 
white, softened without aging his features. He had 
that ease of manner which, in the business councils 
of which he made a part, gave persuasive effect to 
his simple and practical conclusions. He won uni- 
versal confidence, and men augured well of affairs 
in which he took part. 


70 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


As they exchanged greetings, Pascal, with quick- 
ened intuitions, compared him with his father. From 
Dr. Rouvray, too, had always emanated that impres- 
sion of security, but it was the security which one 
feels in the presence of a leader who consents to the 
responsibility of leadership, while M. Aveniere’s au- 
thority was made up of tact and artifice, and insinu- 
ated rather than compelled. 

“ My poor friend,” he said promptly, assuming 
for a brief moment an expression of saddened 
sympathy. 

The three words conveyed to the young man only 
a conventional sympathy. Mme. Aveniere, who had 
little invention, repeated the words with her heart. 
She always effaced herself behind her husband and 
daughter. They seldom consulted her, except upon 
domestic details, which were entirely given over into 
her hands. She was one of those women who live 
unnoticed, and whom nobody thinks of trying to 
understand. By their unappreciated care house- 
hold affairs go on beautifully, without a hitch. Her 
words were hardly more often heard than her 
footsteps. She must once have been pretty, with 
that pastel prettiness which time soon robs of bril- 
liancy. Pascal was surprised at the unusual warmth 
of her greeting. 

Condolences over, M. Aveniere lost no time in as- 
certaining the condition of affairs. 

“ This sad event makes no change in your plans, 
does it? ” 

So abrupt an intrusion into his new life grated 
upon the young man, although he was prepared to 
speak. But must the interview with his future father- 
in-law, which he had planned, include the presence of 
Laurence Yes, on consideration, she ought to be 
there. In view of their pact of freedom, it was indeed 


THE ONWARD MARCH 


71 


to her, and not to her parents, that he owed an ex- 
planation. She alone should judge how far their 
future was to be affected by the new conditions. 

He told only so much as was necessary as to the 
ruin of the Rouvray family, — his father’s accept- 
ance of the involved succession, the still remaining 
indebtedness, which precisely equalled the existing 
property, with the exception of Colletiere. No doubt 
the situation was entirely different from what he had 
always supposed. He admitted it, but with a master- 
ful manner, which reserved to himself alone the 
right of commenting upon the family drama. 
Contrariwise to all his plans, in spite of himself, 
perhaps because of M. Aveniere’s too abrupt inter- 
vention, perhaps because in moments of crisis we 
hear within ourselves voices till then unknown, he 
concluded by saying that the best and wisest plan 
was to settle at Lyons, after his marriage, and at 
once take up his father’s practice. One could make 
one’s way anywhere. He named several provincial 
physicians who had won fame, but he named them 
without conviction. He was thinking only of Paris, 
and was arguing against himself, in a spirit of op- 
position which in so decisive an interview he could 
not explain to himself. 

He had not dared to look at Laurence during his 
story, but now he raised his eyes to hers as if to ask 
her forgiveness for thus putting her love to the test: 

‘‘ Will you go there with me.^ ” he asked. 

The girl’s grave countenance expressed neither 
enthusiasm nor displeasure. 

“ Of course; but is it quite indispensable.?^ ” 

He had not said what he had meant to say, and 
what he had said had not produced the effect he had 
expected. Such is the difference between our own 
inmost feelings and those of others. Different sur- 


72 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


roundings emphasize the difference. In this quiet 
Parisian garden, all destitute of history, the bond 
between one generation and another, the sense of 
family honor, lost the importance with which it had 
been invested in the old family estate. Why had the 
revelations of his father’s manuscript, his mother’s 
views, so impressed him at Colletiere, even while 
he had determined to resist them.? It was clear to 
him that here in Paris the matter would have gone 
off more simply, but for the unaccountable desire 
which had taken possession of him, the absolute 
necessity, even, of displeasing M. Aveniere, who sat 
there smoothing his handsome beard with a preoc- 
cupied air, as of one preparing a report, and of 
arousing Laurence from her enigmatic expression by 
disturbing her dreams of the future. Mme. Aveniere 
was anxiously gazing at her husband and her daugh- 
ter by turns. The first words' uttered by the former 
relieved the general anxiety. 

“ Come, come, my dear fellow, we must not ex- 
aggerate things. A few details will enable us to view 
the situation in a truer light. Will you come to my 
study ? ” 

Pascal replied dryly: 

“ I have nothing to conceal, least of all, from 
Laurence.” 

“ Certainly not,” assented M. Aveniere, amiably. 
“ But men understand business best. Afterward I 
will explain — we will explain it all to my daughter.” 

Pascal coldly assented. Leaving the ladies in the 
garden, he accompanied M. Aveniere to his study, 
which looked out upon the street. Here the young 
man submitted to a categorical interrogatory, in the 
course of which his interlocutor took several notes. 
The questions were by no means offensively put, but 
rather with exquisite tact, perfect urbanity. Yet he 


THE ONWARD MARCH 73 

came out from the interview feeling wounded, fretted 
by his future father-in-law’s reassurances. 

‘‘ I find nothing lost, nothing compromised,” con- 
cluded the latter. “ Beware, my dear fellow, of hasty 
action. It puts one’s obligations in a false perspec- 
tive. What are your plans for to-day? ” 

“ I am to lunch with my friends.” 

“ M. Chassal has great intelligence and sense of 
the fitting. He pleases me, does M. Chassal. Con- 
sult him. Come back to dinner and we shall talk 
more to the purpose. We shall then be in a condi- 
tion to reach a conclusion satisfactory to us all.” 

Pascal was relieved by the offer to temporize. 
Nevertheless, the eulogy of Chassal seemed to him un- 
necessary, almost displeasing. He would consult 
no one. He was competent to choose his own course. 
Had he not decided upon it at Colletiere, and in a di- 
rection precisely opposite to that opposed by his new 
family, whom, somehow, his statement of the situa- 
tion had misled? But he would assume a profitable 
air of sacrifice, and permit himself to be entreated. 
What was there in this new and unexpected attitude? 
The spirit of opposition, the lover’s cruelty, uncon- 
scious play-acting, or the sudden uprising of senti- 
ments buried in the depths of his heart ? — what, 
precisely, was there in it all? 

Laurence came to meet them as they reappeared 
upon the steps. 

“Well?” she asked with a mournful smile, and a 
calmness which revealed nothing of her inward feeling. 

M. Aveniere interposed : “ This evening, when 

Pascal comes back we will talk it over. Everything 
can be arranged.” 

“ I hoped so,” she said simply, and coming nearer 
to Pascal, she added, “ Nothing in the world can 
affect our happiness, can it? ” 


74 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ Nothing in the world,” he answered, touched by 
a remark which effaced all the gloom of the morning. 

She passed through the house with him, accom- 
panying him to the gate. When he would have taken 
advantage of the brief solitude to press her to his 
heart, and touch her lips with his own, she drew 
away with a gentle reserve which was only half a 
refusal. 

“ This evening, my friend. This evening, I promise 
you.” 

“ Till this evening, then.” 

As he was opening the iron gate she laid her hand 
upon his arm. “ You will think of me all day.^ ” 

‘‘ I am always thinking of you.” 

But she repeated, with singular insistence, “ Think 
of me.” 

Why so useless a request.? Did he not distinctly 
perceive that he could not seriously propose exile to 
her, that Paris had laid its commands upon them 
both, as youth lays commands upon life.? 

In the Latin Quarter, where he joined his friends, 
he found all the bustle and movement appropriate to 
summer and the approach of examinations. Groups 
from all the schools were sauntering along the Boule- 
vard Saint-Michel, under the shade of its trees, idling 
away the moments before luncheon. Women were 
few, being less eager to be out of doors, and more 
attractive by artificial light than by day. 

With envious eyes Pascal contemplated the passing 
throng. They walked slowly, without cares, without 
thoughts, even. They were free. A single moment 
had sufficed to deprive him of freedom. But he would 
regain it. One and another, recognizing him, and 
seeing him in black, pressed his hand, hesitating to 
utter the condolences which his distant manner seemed 
to forbid. He had no wish to be pitied, and these 


THE ONWARD MARCH 


75 


encounters unnerved him. He would have preferred 
to know no one — to meet only strange faces, who 
even in the crowd would have left him in solitude like 
that of Colletiere, where he might chafe at his ease, 
ambition rebelling against the chains with which 
destiny dared to menace him. All this indifferent 
bustle irritated him. 

Chassal had notified Epervans. They took him to 
a badly lighted tavern in the rue des E coles, which 
they had often frequented for the sake of the quiet 
dining-room and the simple and wholesome cookery. 
They chose a retired table where they might converse 
without interruption. They were hardly seated when 
Hubert, whose curiosity had been piqued by a letter 
lately received from Bourgoin, broke into the silence 
in which Pascal had shut himself up. His lack of 
tact and patience shocked the correct Felix, but his 
cordiality, while perhaps somewhat coarse, relaxed 
both the nerves and the features of his friend. 

“ So you are coming back to Paris, are n’t 
you.^ ” 

He had opened the subject with a word. Pascal, 
who was living in it, was not at first struck with his 
lack of tact, and simply eluded the question. 

“ I don’t know.” 

“What! You don’t know.? There is no room for 
hesitation.” 

Why, then, the ill-timed question.? His mother, 
in speaking of choice^ had used the same expression. 
And the choice which was laid upon him was not be- 
tween two situations, but between his family and him- 
self. One or the other must inevitably be affected. 
To return to Paris would necessarily be to refuse 
the succession. Only so could the future of his young 
brother and sister be assured, since it would be im- 
possible for him to aid them during the early years 


76 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

of his married life. But by this course the family 
name would be tarnished through all his natal prov- 
ince. To settle at Lyons would be to carry on with- 
out interruption the hard life his father had led, give 
up his ambition, his scientific successes, perhaps his 
happiness. Ah, why did circumstances shut him up to 
so cruel an alternative? “ No one,” he thought, “ no 
one ever found his career confronted with such ob- 
stacles ! It is unjust, I will not submit to it.” 

Yet he said to Hubert: 

“ I cannot tell — obligations, duties — ” 

He spoke as if he had not yet decided. Another 
than Hubert would have been silenced by the brevity 
of his replies. But he was not one to be easily dis- 
concerted, and good humor palliated his rudeness. 

“ Our first duty is to ourselves,” he insisted. “ The 
plan of your life is already laid down. You ought to 
carry it out. All the rest is nothing.” 

Pascal suffered himself to be drawn into the discus- 
sion. Since his friend was arguing his own cause, 
he was ready enough to present objections, eager to 
hear them refuted. 

“ Here in Paris I have my diplomas,” he said, “ but 
no practice. In Lyons my father’s practice will be 
mine.” 

“ It is not a question of immediate success. In 
Paris alone, of all France, can one gain a reputa- 
tion, whether scientific or literary. I am not asking 
whether this is a good thing or not. In Paris you 
can go on with your researches, your lectures will give 
you influence, authority, a public — not a mere prac- 
tice. Your works will some day open the doors of the 
Academy of Medicine to you. When one is made for 
success on the highest level, one does n’t deliberately 
choose a lower plane. That would be weak — a form 
of cowardice. One must live his own life, remember 


THE ONWARD MARCH 77 

that. So much the worse for the failures. Such 
losses are inevitable.” 

“ And if the failures are one’s own flesh and 
blood? ” 

‘‘ Goodness, man, I ’m not asking you to trample 
them under foot ! But I am positive that in no case, 
under no pretext, should you sacrifice the least one 
of your prospects. Sell your land — it ’s only a 
bother. Beware of emotions, of sentimentality ! If 
the worst comes to the worst, refuse the succession.” 

This time the attack was direct. Pascal started, 
wondering how, without confidences on his part, his 
friend had been able to touch his inmost thought. 

“ Who has been talking to you ? ” 

No one.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” 

‘^Why, you poor fellow, the Rouvrays are too 
well known in Voiron, and all through Dauphiny, for 
that matter, for people not to be interested in their 
affairs.” 

‘‘Ah!” 

Then everybody knew, everybody had always known 
the family embarrassments, though he had never so 
much as suspected them. The ever-present and often 
invisible chorus in our tragedies had been following 
his family difficulties as if they had been a play. 
Well, then I He would show that it was the easiest 
thing in the world to work them out. Hubert was 
delivering himself of the axiom : 

^ “No one is bound by the living, still less by the 
dead.” 

“ They don’t ask it,” observed Chassal, blandly. 

■' “ The first thing is to succeed. After that, if there 
is time, look after your family. No successful life 
has been ordered on any other than this logical plan. 
Let us learn to make the necessary sacrifices.” 


78 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“Of other people?” 

“ To be sure ; it is the only sacrifice which does 
not injure ourselves.” 

Hubert himself was remorselessly sacrificing his own 
parents, who were wearing themselves out in provid- 
ing the means for his expensive studies. “ It pleases 
them,” he was in the habit of saying. His studies 
were, indeed, nearly completed, but he was proposing 
to squeeze out of them the capital needed for divers 
enterprises which he had in mind. 

Felix, who had taken little part in the conversa- 
tion, now ranged himself on Hubert’s side, with all 
that art of rounding angles, polishing phrases, deco- 
rating human actions wdth fine theories, which was 
one day to make him a dangerous orator. He quite 
realized the temptation offered his friend by his 
father’s fine practice at Lyons — all ready to his 
hand. But what a surrender, what a renunciation ! 
Pascal owed himself to science, to the trust reposed 
in him by his teachers, who looked to him to continue 
their work. He would say nothing of family obliga- 
tions, upon which it would be indelicate to touch. 
«pBut Mile. Aveniere — and with what prudence the 
name was uttered ! — Mile. Aveniere had consented 
to share a destiny which promised to be brilliant. 
Could she accustom herself to live elsewhere than in 
Paris? Her happiness and Pascal’s future were as 
one in bidding him remain. 

While thus, with infinite tact, Felix was espousing 
Laurence’s cause, Pascal narrowly scrutinized his 
face. It irked him sorely to hear the character and 
tastes of his betrothed discussed. He had chafed on 
finding Felix in the garden that morning, and now 
he was tortured by an inexplicable j ealousy — inex- 
plicable because his friend’s advice appeared to be 
most disinterested. 


THE ONWARD MARCH 79 

“ She will go with me, no matter where,” he said 
with decision. 

The remark closed the council which he had not 
sought, but which, as M. Aveniere had foreseen, and 
quite contrary to his habits of independent action, 
his two most intimate friends had given him. 

‘‘ During the years of our acquaintance,” concluded 
Hubert, “ we have shared the same determination to 
live an untrammeled life. A time of misfortune is not 
the time to forget this. On the contrary, it is the 
time to put forth every energy to live up to it. 
Don’t be provoked at us for reminding you, my dear 
fellow.” 

His signal to the more circumspect Felix to drop 
the subject was quite unnecessary. Pascal’s dark- 
ened countenance showed him to be in no mood for 
further counsel. Changing the subject, Hubert drew 
the picture of his own future fortunes. He was 
about to revolutionize the traction industry by a new 
process for making locomotive axles. Once launched 
by Hirken, a promoter, who had offered him a part- 
nership, the enterprise would go of itself. They would 
deal with Germany, England, America. Difficulties 
would disappear like inequalities on the earth’s sur- 
face before the leveler’s spade, millions would flow 
from all quarters — checks, bills, bullion, so much 
material for the building which was going up, magic 
palace of the stock exchange, of Hubert’s stock ex- 
change, amid the blessings of bondholders, stock- 
holders, sleeping partners. With marvelous dexterity 
this juggler with words erected his castle in the air, 
crowning it with the suggestion to Pascal: 

‘‘ If you like, I ’ll speak of it to M. Aveniere. He 
would be glad to invest in it.” 

Felix Chassal observed that M. Aveniere was 
prudent. 


80 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


‘‘ Just what we need,” Hubert promptly replied, 
in no wise disturbed by the implication. 

Thus, from the day of completing his studies, while 
his classmates were moiling underground in their 
mine holes, he, erect in the broad sunlight, would 
enter the lists with fortune, would pursue her as one 
pursues big game until breathless, exhausted, it is 
at last brought to bay. For he proposed to suc- 
ceed at once, to turn everything to profit, gaining 
the power that belongs to those who put money in 
circulation. 

Felix Chassal, shrewder, more subtle and crafty, 
let him pour himself out. But his vanity was piqued, 
and in one of those moments of after-dinner confi- 
dence into which the most reserved and the most ab- 
stemious, while still young, are apt to be betrayed, 
he also, in a spirit of bravado, unveiled his hopes. 
The bar was to be the stepping-stone to the political 
life which he was planning. He had already estab- 
lished relations with his native place. Tour du Pin, 
which he hardly remembered, but the deputy from 
which was growing old, becoming decrepit. In these 
days every electoral district in France being in the 
hands of a herd of petty upstarts, if one did not 
wish to work in their low interests, he must subject 
them to his own. It is the old story of the sparrow 
hawk which lets the crows do the himting and snatches 
away their prey. His great patron, M. Herve 
Renard, was planning to re-enter the field. He would 
attach himself to him, and in the probable case of his 
being made a minister, he himself would become his 
chief secretary. Then the electors of La Tour du Pin, 
spellbound or timid, venal or servile, as electors gen- 
erally are, would accept his candidature. That would 
be the beginning. Afterward we should see. 

“ What color shall you take.'* ” asked Pascal, as 


THE ONWARD MARCH 


81 


ignorant in public affairs as most young men of his 
generation. 

Color ! ” repeated Hubert — “ the one which will 
insure his nomination,” 

Felix, who had convictions and a sense of decency, 
corrected him. 

“ That which will best serve the nation,” 

Even before entering the arena, the one under 
cover of his social theories, the other more coarsely 
and more distinctly, had alike detected the two weak 
points of every democracy, through which the daring 
secure entrance and take possession as conquerors — 
business and politics. Each was making use of the 
method which he deemed infallible for the intensive 
culture of his Me, Both methods implied a rigid, 
implacable will, tense as an acrobat’s rope — on the 
whole an interesting subject of observation. 

Pascal, listening, was wrought up to a state of 
excitement and won to their way of thinking. He 
felt ashamed of the hesitations, which had no doubt 
arisen from his subconsciousness, and which seemed 
to him a weakness. No, he certainly would not give 
up the game. His future would be more brilliant 
than theirs, since it was based upon a science, a benefi- 
cent science, with which he identified himself, plan- 
ning to advance it as he himself advanced. 

Thus upon each of the three young men this ex- 
change of views, before entering the battle of life, 
had the inspiring effect of a vigil of arms. They 
were their own mercenaries. Kindled with the en- 
thusiasm of success, each felt his own cause to be the 
most worthy of service, the only worthy one, indeed. 

On leaving the tavern, Pascal went to the Academy 
of Medicine. The inner court and the corridors were 
alive with the comings and goings of the examina- 
tions — the soundings of futures about to be. He 
6 


82 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


went to the room of Professor Arnaud, physician of 
the Saltpetriere hospital, to which his clinical service 
was to be attached. The latter, after rapidly uttered 
condolences, plunged into the subject of new observa- 
tions on meningitis and diseases of the spinal marrow, 
made upon certain of his cases. He called his new as- 
sistant to witness, opened to him the indefinite field of 
hypothesis, of scientific discovery, urged him to enter 
upon it without delay. Once again the young man 
was taken captive by the joy of working with others 
under the direction of an ardent and daring leader. 
When he descended the stairway of the school, his 
features were relaxed, even smiling. He bent his 
steps toward the Luxembourg, to drop in at his 
own rooms, before returning to the rue Desbordes- 
Valmore. It was cooler, less sultry in the garden, 
though still warm. Pascal, who was a fast walker, 
was fain to slacken his pace; falling under the spell 
of the hour, he thoughtfully contemplated the great 
fountain, the flower beds, the perspective of the trees. 
The familiar sights seemed made only to give him 
pleasure, but not, like the fields and woods of Col- 
letiere, to move his heart with memories of childhood 
and all the abiding past. Why should he refuse 
himself the happiness which sprang up all around him 
like a living fountain? For the first time since his 
father’s death he could breathe freely. Paris, his 
comrades, the ambient air, restored to him the mean- 
ing of his life. He lost sight of those oppressing 
sorrows, irritating realities, which had so depressed 
him, of the family, which would confiscate his strength. 
At last he could think without disquietude only of 
himself, of Laurence, of the love which so happily 
accorded with his ambition. He was free. 


V 


THE VICTORY 

The ladies were in the garden. They were await- 
ing Pascal, who was burning to inform his betrothed 
that he was, at last, truly free. Nothing was to be 
changed in their happy future; they would remain 
in Paris, as they ought. His people would consent 
to the necessary sacrifices; Colletiere should be sold, 
in case of need. Laurence’s generous offer should not 
be accepted; she should not be exiled, she should not 
be asked to bear the unjust and cruel weight of an- 
cient and outlawed obligations. He was hastening 
to tell her all this. 

Evening lasts far into night on the last days of 
June, the longest in the year. Though it was nearly 
seven o’clock, the paly gold sunlight still filtered 
through the branches and lay upon the sanded paths. 
Before going down into the garden, the young man 
paused an instant upon the doorsteps, as in the 
morning, but in a different state of mind, gazing upon 
the two women, who, absorbed in conversation, were 
unaware of his presence. What a little, washed-out 
creature Mme. Aveniere, in her inevitable dark dress, 
appeared beside her daughter! There was no room 
to doubt that the garden was the brighter for the 
presence of the young girl with her gauze dress of 
ivory white, floating like a tunic, the low-cut bodice 
and half-long sleeves fully revealing her neck and 
arms, her radiant countenance thrown into relief by 
the shadows of the background. 


84 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ In your place,” the mother was saying, “ I should 
go with him.” 

He distinctly heard the words. The matter was 
no longer in question, but had not Laurence consented 
to go with him? She was hindered from repeating 
her promise, for she saw her fiance. Springing up 
gracefully, she came to meet him, her lips wreathed 
in that mysterious smile which inspired in him a feel- 
ing of uncertainty which she did not seem to share. 

“ I was hoping for you,” she said. 

He felt her penetrating, questioning glance, and 
came toward her, his head high, his step firm, with 
no trace of the morning’s disquietude. 

“ Laurence! ” he murmured simply. Neither spoke 
again. To both it seemed useless — each must know 
what to think. Yet neither found in this mute under- 
standing the joy they expected. They kept their 
secret like two accomplices. Mme. Aveniere joined 
them, with a commiserating countenance which kept 
them silent. As if dreading to find herself mistaken, 
Laurence eluded the impending explanation by saying : 

“ Father is waiting for you, Pascal ; will you go to 
him for a few minutes ? ” 

“ Dear friend,” Mme. Aveniere began sadly, as if 
he were again to hear bad news. 

‘‘ He is right,” Pascal said, “ I shall go to him at 
once. I have something to say to him.” 

M. Aveniere was awaiting him in his study. Pascal 
had never before realized as they deserved the at- 
tractions of this comfortable room, with its light 
tapestries and slender but strong English furniture, 
a room which seemed hardly made for onerous or 
troublesome business, a room with which, indeed, his 
present manner was quite in harmony. Yet notwith- 
standing the affectionate greeting of his future father- 
in-law, his almost contagious amiability, Pascal felt 
himself chilled. His manner was too conciliating, his 


THE VICTORY 85 

assurance that all could easily be arranged too 
confident. 

“We have time to talk before dinner,” he said, “ it 
will give us all the better appetite.” 

In a well-regulated life ought not all work to cease 
before the evening meal? 

“ I am at your orders, sir,” replied Pascal, already 
feeling a sense of check. 

What, in fact, was M. Aveni^re going to propose? 
He would not be sorry to hear. Dissatisfaction with 
the diminution of his material resources, the possi- 
bility of a removal to Lyons, were too openly evident 
in M. Aveniere, who had no idea of the change in 
Pascal’s views. He began without circumlocution : 

“I have considered your communication of this 
morning on all sides. Certainly, it is always prefer- 
able to learn things of this sort before than after 
marriage, and I recognize your perfect loyalty in the 
matter.” 

The tribute wounded Pascal. He would have pro- 
tested, but his interlocutor went on: 

“You see, my dear fellow, two extremes should 
always be avoided — failure to recognize obliga- 
tion and exaggeration of duty. Don’t exaggerate 
yours. Be content with simply doing it with no 
parade of heroism.” 

“ So I propose,” replied the young man, perceiving 
at last the possibility of an agreement on which he 
was in no wise inclined to plume himself. His 
thoughts, expressed by M. Aveniere, suddenly lost 
the brilliancy with which pride and excitement had 
gilded them. Thus are we apt to consider ourselves 
misrepresented by those who put our fine theories 
into definite words. 

The grave voice went calmly on, laying down the 
law with amiable authority. 


86 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ To begin with, you are not obliged to accept 
your father’s succession.” 

What better than this could Pascal desire? Here 
were his own resolutions being served up to him, the 
very course of conduct upon which he had decided was 
being laid out before him. Yet here was all the morn- 
ing’s torture beginning over again. In the Latin 
Quarter with his friends, in the Luxembourg amid the 
thousand echoes of youth’s various voices, even in the 
songful streets of Paris, he had easily succeeded in 
forgetting his father’s terrific struggle, the confidence 
with which his family looked to him, the country home 
with its changeless horizon and the cemetery close at 
hand. In this narrow room all these rose up before 
him, for no other reason than because M. Aveniere’s 
voice was displeasing. His host, misapprehending 
his involuntary gesture for one of dissent, set him- 
self to win him over by tact, by flattery even. 

“ No, no, I assure you that you need not. You are 
all wrong if you think me self-interested or indifferent. 
Do not you yourself think that your father went 
to extremes, when he undertook to clear off so heavy 
an indebtedness for which he was not responsible? 
Certainly no one can find fault with so magnificent a 
generosity, although we must admit that in general 
this sort of generosity simply enriches unworthy 
creditors. Do you desire that his sacrifice should be 
thrown away? ” 

“ How, thrown away ? ” asked Pascal, irritated by 
any allusion to his father. 

It certainly would be in vain if its burden were 
to fall upon you. Have you not observed that you 
have been systematically kept in ignorance of the 
state of things, that Dr, Rouvray’s wish was that 
your studies should not be hampered by the fear 
of future poverty? All his paternal ambition was 


THE VICTORY 


87 


centered in you ; he was determined that you should 
be free.” 

“ His self-abnegation — ” 

“ Would be inefficacious if you, in your turn, were 
to be crushed under a burden which dwarfs the powers, 
which weighs heavily upon hfe, which prevents ease of 
production, clogs the road to success, transforms the 
man of a liberal profession into a beast of burden. 
You will carry out your father’s wishes — ” 

‘‘ By refusing what he accepted.^ ” 

He did not accept for you. However, I foresee 
no necessity for so uncompromising a course. I ad- 
mit your scruples, recognize your delicacy. They do 
you honor, and set my mind at rest as to my daugh- 
ter’s future — her moral if not her material future.” 

M. Aveniere, who, while speaking, had been strok- 
ing his fine beard, paused a moment, before returning 
to the mark, which, according to his tactics, he had 
overpassed in order the more surely to attain it. 
Pascal waited, touched to the quick. 

‘‘ Don’t refuse the succession at once. Try a more 
simple course, one certain of success. Call the credit- 
ors together, offer them so much per cent — twenty 
per cent, for instance — it ’s a pretty good figure in- 
deed — in exchange for a receipt in full. If they 
hesitate, you can suggest that you will simply refuse 
your father’s succession. You are the oldest and the 
only major heir. Minor heirs, you may observe, would 
have difficulty in securing authorization for an unre- 
served acceptance. The creditors will thus receive in 
all more than eighty per cent of half a million, and 
I am not reckoning in the interest. They have a good 
thing of it. My judgment is that they will be only 
too glad to accept your terms and receive this final 
dividend. You will thus have the satisfaction — since 
you care about it — of clearing off the whole debt.” 


88 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


Pascal had never been initiated into clever transac- 
tions of this sort, in which involved affairs are hap- 
pily cleared up by means of mutual concessions, — 
transactions not sentimental but practical, which rec- 
oncile honor with interest, manipulate and mingle 
them to form a succedaneum entirely suited to the 
spirit of our time. M. Aveniere, thinking him shaken, 
went on in his persuasive voice: 

“ You say that your mother’s fortune was replaced 
by the proceeds of a life insurance (which will remain 
intact but for the twenty thousand francs, the use of 
which we have foreseen) and the Colletiere property 
which brings in about three thousand francs a year. 
The income will be small; nevertheless, a family can 
live upon it, — modestly, I admit. But would not Mme. 
Rouvray herself desire to reduce her scale of living 
after her cruel bereavement ? Do not you think so ? ” 

Here was a point-blank invitation to the son to 
reorganize his mother’s life. All the afternoon he had 
felt a certain grandeur in his resolution to be free. 
Here was the result set forth before him, — why did 
it strike him so disagreeably.? Yet his host was sug- 
gesting nothing extraordinary — he was ingratiating, 
cordial, logical. Then why should he detest him so 
strenuously ? 

‘‘ My mother,” he remarked, “ has never cared for 
anything other than simplicity.” 

M. Aveniere found no check in the young man’s 
grim expression, which he took to be merely attention. 

“ Is your sister’s education finished ? ” 

« Not yet.” 

“ She is sixteen, is she not.? At sixteen a young 
girl is more or less finished. It is not good for them 
to be too learned. They so easily take on a pedantic 
little air which frightens husbands away. Men don’t 
enjoy having wives superior to themselves. For that 


THE VICTORY 


89 


matter there must be good free courses in Lyons, as 
in Paris — excellent courses, so much money has been 
spent for education the last few years. Then there is 
your brother. How old is he ? ” 

He will soon be fifteen.” 

“ Just the age ; we can get him a free scholarship 
in one of the great public schools. Favor will do it. 
I have connections in the university world. If he is 
as clever as you, he will get on in his studies, and later 
we shall see. The Great Schools, for example — with 
a scholarship, of course. It is less expensive than the 
university. But there is no need of looking so far 
ahead. You may be ever so self-forgetful in all this, 
but I cannot imitate you. You will forgive me for 
thinking of you, for thinking especially of you, my 
dear fellow, I had almost said, my dear son.” 

“ I am obliged to you, sir.” 

Sir restored the distance which the too carefully 
calculated ‘‘ my dear son ” would fain have sup- 
pressed. Satisfied with his maneuvers, M. Aveniere 
took no notice. 

“ When you asked us for my daughter’s hand, — 
or rather, when you asked her for it, — that appears 
to be the fashion, — with all the carelessness of youth, 
she thought only of the sentiment which you had in- 
spired in her. Knowing your personal worth, your 
past successes, your prospect of a brilliant future, 
she trusted in you. She had always intended to 
marry a man who could lead his generation. You 
may be proud of her choice. But you were to settle 
in Paris, you were to succeed in Paris in a scientific 
career which has honors in its gift. She is our only 
daughter, she would not be leaving us. Thus, in this 
plan, everything smiled upon her, everything pleased 
her.” 

In fact, he had not taken sufficiently into con- 


90 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


sideration that she was an only daughter. Now, 
while shaking off his own family ties and responsi- 
bilities, he began to reproach himself for not having 
considered Laurence’s feelings in this light. 

“ You pleased us, also,” resumed M. Aveniere. 
‘‘We were planning to meet all the expenses of your 
settling in Paris — not too far from the rue Des- 
bordes-Valmore, you understand. My daughter, who 
knew our intention, had made all the plans. In Paris 
it is important to appear before one can be — to ap- 
pear the fashionable physician, the generally admired 
man of learning, before actually being such. Our 
social connections would be yours, our carriage would 
be at your disposition, and finally, the allowance 
which we were prepared to make to Laurence would 
permit you to push on rapidly, free from every-day 
care, to your goal, a professorship in the Faculty of 
Medicine. Whereas if you were to choose Lyons — 
bless me ! the conditions would not be the same. We 
should ask — my wife and I — time to consider the 
matter.” 

Thus was spread out before Pascal the comfortable 
existence which might be his. The goal which he as- 
suredly sought was shown to be so easy of attainment, 
so normal, distant only a very few months, like an il- 
luminated dwelling under the arching trees of an 
avenue. The polite phrases in which all this was set 
forth, barely concealed a very distinct suggestion, al- 
most a threat, that all this proffered generosity might 
easily be withdrawn, vanish into thin air, in case he 
decided to live anywhere else than within the fortifica- 
tions of Paris. 

Yet the young man objected: 

“ I should succeed at once in Lyons, under the 
prestige of my father’s name.” 

“ No doubt, no doubt. But what sort of success? 
You would be little better than a local doctor.” 


THE VICTORY 91 

My father was known and appreciated all the 
region round.” 

“ Of course. He enjoyed public esteem, but you 
are too intelligent not to be aware that Paris is com- 
ing more and more to be the place in which men gain 
reputation — I mean a true reputation — that which 
reaches even to foreign countries.” 

“ Not in medicine.” 

“ Indeed, yes, — in everything. In Paris a special- 
ist — and every one must be a specialist nowadays — 
enjoys the opportunities for research, the most im- 
mediate publicity for his discoveries. Scientific re- 
nown is multiplied by ten in Paris.” 

Precisely what Chassal and Epervans had said. 
By way of clinching his argument, M. Aveniere 
concluded : 

“ That is the future which Laurence holds dear. 
To her also Paris is necessary. Can you imagine her 
in a provincial city.^ Would her gifts, her charms, be 
appreciated at their full worth there She would 
be stifled. Parisian life creates habits — she is un- 
usually refined and many-sided. Have you not 
felt it.?” 

“ Does Laurence agree with you, sir.? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

Yes, Paris was the natural setting of this girl, of 
his wife. He knew it. He had not to learn it from 
M. Aveniere, nor from Felix Chassal. And yet she 
had consented to leave Paris. Or had she not, indeed, 
consented.? The doubt crossed his mind, but he did 
not dwell upon it. Happily the interview was nearly 
over. His future father-in-law’s reasonings, the secret 
wish of his betrothed, his own inward impulse, his de- 
sire, all these converged toward the same solution. 
By what inconsistency was it that even at that mo- 
ment this conclusion filled him with bitterness .? Why 
did it grate so painfully upon his nerves .? 


92 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

M. Aveniere was patiently awaiting his reply. 
M. Aveniere was arranging the future to suit his 
daughter and his own purse. M. Aveniere was not 
in the least concerned for Mme. Rouvray, nor for 
Claire and Gerard, two minute black specks, away off 
in Dauphiny — this was indeed his right. But was 
he himself forgetting his word — to live his own life 
before all else.^ Bits of phrases uttered by Hubert 
recurred to his memory, “ so much the worse for 
the losers,” “ the sacrifice of others is the only one 
which does not lower ourselves.” He must consent, 
must debate the question no longer. Yet he remained 
silent. 

“ We will not talk longer at present,” said M. 
Aveniere, somewhat surprised at his hesitation, 
‘‘ There is no need that you should torment yourself. 
Rest assured, my dear fellow, that we care only for 
your welfare — yours and Laurence’s. Think it 
over and you will see that I am right. You must 
not fetter your hands with needless chains.” 

Again that expression ! Yes, he surely would not 
bear chains, he was determined to be free. And how 
he would enjoy liberty, in the garden, presently! 

“ Sir,” he began, his mind at last made up — 

But his host, fearing a check, and sure of an ally 
elsewhere, interrupted him: 

“ Talk it all over with Laurence this evening after 
dinner, and agree upon your course. That is no 
more than fair, since your marriage and your future 
are concerned. I leave it all to you two.” 

“ That is best,” said Pascal. “We will decide the 
matter together.” 

“ And now let us go back to the ladies. They will 
never forgive me if I appropriate you longer.” 

The night had at last condescended to come, a blue 
transparent night, hardly cool. Laurence’s dress, her 


THE VICTORY 


93 


vague profile, stood out clearly against the darkness. 
As in his life, Pascal saw only her. 

Dinner was announced. The Avenieres’ table was 
always good, and this evening it was particularly 
excellent. Red roses covered the tablecloth, rose-col- 
ored shades over the candles gave the table those deli- 
cate tints which rest the eyes. Through the open 
window the trees, confused in the darkness, gave a 
vague impression as of a park. Basking in this sooth- 
ing and sympathetic atmosphere, a beneficent lethargy 
gradually stole over Pascal, bringing repose and heal- 
ing to his chafed spirit. He abandoned himself to it 
luxuriously, and, as in the Luxembourg that after- 
noon, enjoyed the hour with no thought of past or 
future. 

“Shall we take our coffee outside.?” asked M. 
Aveniere. “ The evening is so warm.” 

Laurence applauded the suggestion. Her mother 
had no wish, or her wish was not asked. They went 
down the few steps ; the butler brought out the can- 
delabrum from the dining-room and placed it upon a 
stand. The quiet air did not even stir the candle 
fiame. The subdued light threw their faces into half 
shadow. That of Laurence, with its pure coloring, 
seemed immaterial. A bit of starry sky was framed 
in by the branches. The fragrance of the jasmine 
climbing over the porch, the stronger perfume of 
honeysuckle against the wall, filled the narrow space. 
But for the infrequent and almost noiseless footsteps 
of a horse in the unpaved street, how far they seemed 
from Paris ! 

And yet it was not the night beside the lake of 
Paladru with its majestic calm pervading the large 
horizon, entering every dwelling like an olive branch. 
The great invisible city hemmed in this garden with 
its longings and its fevers, as the woods and waters 


94 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


surrounded the old house at Colleti^re. Even the sky 
had a special brightness like the fitful reflection of a 
distant fire, strong enough to dim the stars. Lau- 
rence, all in white, serene and motionless as a marble 
goddess, communicated, at least to one of them, 
those feverish desires which she seemed herself not to 
know. 

Having emptied his cup and smoked a cigar, M. 
Aveniere opined with a laugh that since the young 
people had hardly seen one another all day they must 
have a thousand things to say to each other. And 
turning to His wife, he added, “ Besides, my dear, the 
evening air is not good for you.” 

He was not generally so thoughtful about Mme. 
Aveniere’s health. She rose obediently. “ As you 
please.” 

She looked by turns at her daughter and Pascal 
with an infinite sadness which no one could see, — 
which for that matter, no one would have noticed even 
in broad daylight, and went up the steps in advance 
of her husband. 

Left by themselves, Pascal and Laurence remained 
a moment without speaking. She bent over the table 
and slowly blew out the candles one by one. Thus 
leaning, the light upon her face, he saw all those 
details which, each time that he looked upon them, 
gave him a pleasure so deep that he would never 
have consented to analyze it. Each was a new dis- 
covery, as in art the multiplied proofs of perfection. 
As the last flame was extinguished, the young girl 
seemed almost phantom-like. As his eyes became ac- 
customed to the obscurity, he saw again the vague 
lines of her gown, her transparent cheeks, her starry 
eyes. He drew near, to lose nothing of her. 

“ I don’t see you enough — never enough.” 

‘‘ The moon will soon rise. Come nearer to me,” 


THE VICTORY 95 

At once she took the direction of the interview, 
“TVhy don’t you love me more?” 

After his recent decision the reproach was unex- 
pected indeed. 

“ I cannot love you more, Laurence, I love you 
more than all the world.” 

‘‘ More than all the world ? ” she repeated doubt- 
fully. “ Less than your family, though. I was am- 
bitious for you, and you are giving up your ambitions. 
I cared more for your future than you, Pascal, and it 
is I whom you are sacrificing.” 

“ Laurence ! How can you say that I am sacrificing 
you? ” 

And begging her forgiveness for having left her 
in uncertainty, he told her of his decision and all his 
plans. She did not attempt to interrupt him, nor did 
she approve when he ceased to speak; she simply 
said : 

“ You know, my dear, that I should have followed 
you, no matter where.” 

“ I know,” he murmured in rapt adoration. 

Had he not indeed reason for adoration? The 
rising moon was quietly stealing into the garden, 
slipping between the branches, shedding abroad its 
rays as an urn sheds its contents, over the girl’s 
shoulders and hair. Soon her face was in full light. 
Pascal, watching the progress of the apparition, 
attributed all its glory to Laurence, as if the very 
courses of the stars might depend upon her. The 
agitating experiences of the day had made him all 
the more susceptible to the enervating infiuences of 
love. Did she divine as much, with that prescience 
which so well accorded her conduct with the situa- 
tion ? She rose, and bending over him, lightly touched 
his eyes with her lips. 

“ On your eyes,” she said, those eyes that have 
wept.” 


96 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


Surprised and enraptured, he received her caress, 
in which he felt a sort of dramatic chastity, as if she 
had carefully thought it out beforehand. He tried 
to kiss her in his turn, but she gently avoided his 
caress, fearing the disarrangement of her hair. 

“ Do you care for it ? ” she asked. 

“ Laurence, my beloved ! ” 

She took both his hands, and their lips met while 
their bodies were apart — as if she knew precisely 
how much she was willing to grant, fixing its limits 
with disconcerting calmness. As she moved away, 
he saw her smiling in the moonlight — that smile of 
which he was half afraid, because of its mystery. But 
this time its expression was easy to read, for it was 
all triumph. 

“ You have told my father.^ ” she asked. 

“ Not yet. I wanted to tell you first. You will tell 
him this evening.” 

“ Why not you ? ” 

“ I can see no one else this evening. I could not 
endure it. I want to carry your image with me by 
itself alone.” 

“You will come again to-morrow.?” 

“ To-morrow, yes, I will come again. In the even- 
ing, as to-day.” 

“ Earlier.? ” 

“ Yes, earlier.” 

The garden was growing white around them. The 
fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle enfolded them 
with the softness of night. 

“ You must go now,” she said. 

“ You ’ll stay here until I am gone.? — ” 

In fact, she did remain long after his departure, 
sitting in the same place, her slender hands crossed 
upon her breast as if she was clasping there the 
treasure dearest to woman — a man’s will. 


VI 


A YOUNG GIRL’S HEART 

The Avenieres were expecting Pascal the next day. 
Their agreement as to the necessity of living in 
Paris involved many other questions, important to 
settle without delay — the date of the ceremony, 
which of course would be private, the quarter in 
which they should live, the choice of an apartment, 
the expenses of furnishing, the allowance which Lau- 
rence was to receive in lieu of dowry. 

After the departure of her lover, the previous 
evening, the young girl had announced her victory 
to her parents. 

‘‘We never should have consented to let you go,” 
exclaimed her father, radiant, setting down the success 
of the negotiations to the credit of his own cleverness, 

Mme. Aveniere alone expressed no joy. To Lau- 
rence’s question, “ Are n’t you glad to keep me near 
you ? ” she had been courageous enough to reply : 

“ If I were sure it was for your good. Don’t you 
see, it would be better to go to Lyons with Pascal.^ 
His duty is there. Forget us, if need be — ” 

“ Come, come ! ” interrupted her husband, peremp- 
torily. “ Your son-in-law is cut out to succeed in Paris, 
and he knows it. Perhaps he hesitated a little in our 
private interview, but once with your daughter, he 
recovered himself, recognized his own weakness and 
conquered it.” 


7 


98 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

“ Mamma, a man like Pascal would be perfectly 
wretched without his ambition.” 

Startled at her own temerity, the poor woman made 
haste to beat a retreat, ceasing to defend an idea so 
chimerical, so destitute of common sense. A little more 
and they would have accused her of heartlessness. 

Laurence, in the garden, was thinking, “ He prom- 
ised to come early,” yet, in spite of his promise, seven 
o’clock came and he was not yet there. Some one 
came at last with a telegram. It was a brief excuse, 
with no reason given. A letter would explain his 
absence. 

Mme. Aveniere asked if he was ill. 

“ No,” replied the young girl, who for once could 
not control her agitation. “ He would give it as an 
excuse, and he says nothing about it.” 

“ Perhaps he did n’t want to distress you. It is 
kind of him.” 

Laurence was sure that something grave had hap- 
pened, — news from Colletiere, perhaps, which was 
likely to bring up all the questions over again. Her 
presence would bring the deserter to terms. She pro- 
posed to her mother to go to him in his rooms. 

“ It would be hardly proper,” objected the mother. 

The young girl made small account of proprieties 
in face of an object to be gained. She would have 
hastened with fearless calmness to the Boulevard de 
I’Observatoire, had she not reflected that at that hour 
she would have some difficulty in finding Pascal, and 
that the attempt, if talked about, might weaken her 
influence; the love which pursues its object is no 
longer sure of itself. She therefore gave up the idea 
of so unwise an expedition, and passed a tedious even- 
ing and weaty night of uncertainty, now picturing 
to herself how she would take vengeance on the 


A YOUNG GIRL’S HEART 


99 


wretch who had made her so unhappy, after all her 
goodness to him the evening before; again fighting 
back as best she might her tears of alarm. For cau- 
tion and a determined will are no guarantee against 
love, and when passion comes in collision with rules, 
feelings, reasonings, or vanities and is tossed from one 
to the other, every dread is agony ; it grows more in- 
tense from its very wounds, whether to triumph or 
to die. 

Morning came at last. Either for penance or for 
discipline, she forced herself so far to control her 
impatience as not to rise earlier than usual, above 
all, not to ask for her mail. The maid brought a 
letter, Jiis letter, to her bed, where she was feverishly 
holding herself still. At last she would know what she 
had to brace herself against — that it was some new 
obstacle, unknown and dangerous, she had not the 
slightest doubt. As a scout on campaign inspects a 
forest cautiously, and with all his instincts for de- 
fense alert, so she broke the seal of the letter. She 
was soon informed. Pascal’s forces were deployed 
on the grand highway, in the full light of day. 
But it was so unexpected! 

Laurence, my Laurence of last evening, I have 
passed a desperate day, and yet I cannot go to you. 
In your garden I forget everything that is not my 
love. I had hardly left you, walking along the 
Seine, when I found myself seeking for the happi- 
ness you had given me, and not finding it. It could 
not be simply because I had left you that the sense of 
disenchantment overwhelmed me. Ever since I have 
loved you, to see you has made me glad afterward — 
before burning to see you again — that you were 
no longer with me ; I seemed to be finding rest 
from an overwhelming joy in the more quiet happi- 


100 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


ness of memory, which I could prolong at my own 
pleasure, since it depended only upon myself. But 
last evening my love seemed turned to bitterness, I was 
shaken with an agitation that I have never known 
before. I sought earnestly for its cause, but its 
diagnosis escaped me. 

“ This morning, setting my papers in order, I read 
over my home letters, looked at the photographs of 
my family, and I understood — I knew whence came 
that taste of ashes which spoiled the sweetness of my 
love. I am the victim of a weakness which I cannot 
overcome. My mind is quite clear. I perceive my 
malady, and I know that it is one from which I shall 
not recover. In vain have I sought to regain health 
of mind by summoning all my ideals, all my convic- 
tions; worse still, in vain do I appeal to my strong 
love. I cannot overcome it. I have come to a blank 
wall. I cannot overcome it — that is all. 

“ I cannot separate my life from that of my family. 
I believed myself to be free and I am in chains. I do 
not believe in obligations which bind generation to 
generation. I do not consent that my powers shall 
be hampered by family responsibility. I have a 
more personal notion of duty than that; we owe it 
to ourselves ; it is by developing ourselves in the face 
of every obstacle that we most completely fulfill duty. 
I tell myself this, I repeat the axioms out of which 
my friends and I have constructed the catechism of 
human existence — of our own, at least. And these 
self-evident truths do not work — they work no 
longer. I verify them, and in that very act disprove 
them. A force which I cannot measure, which comes 
from unknown depths, and which only yesterday, 
before I went to you, dictated my words, in spite 
of myself — a force or a miserable sympathy compels 
me, against my own judgment, against my very love. 


A YOUNG GIRL’S HEART 


101 


I must obey it unquestioningly. One of these days, 
when I have the leisure for it, I must assuredly analyze 
it; we are more complex than I imagined, 

“In Paris I have my career all to make if I am 
to gain from it an immediate practical advantage. 
Probably it would be long before I could render 
those services to my family which they immediately 
need. I shall therefore go back to Lyons, take up 
my father’s practice, accept this succession, pay the 
debts of ancestors who are wholly indifferent to me, 
brighten my mother’s days, educate my brother, 
marry my sister. It is a very wise and meritorious 
undertaking. I shall extend my neck for the collar, 
harness myself to this car. 

“ I shall harness myself to it with rage in my 
heart, and I shall draw it so fast that I shall not be 
forced to abandon my ambitions. I will abandon 
nothing. In ten years I shall be thirty-six. Then I 
shall take up my life again, in the place where now I 
lay it down. I shall utilize these ten years for ex- 
periences, for study. Interrupted in the general in- 
vestigations which I had thought to undertake, I shall 
go on along different lines. But I shall return to 
pure science, for it I shall keep a part of my future. 

“ You, Laurence, you, my beloved, how much more 
anxious am I for you ! This is not the destiny I have 
dreamed for you. It is not that which I desire, which 
your father demands. Very courteously he gave me 
to understand that even your dowry depends upon 
my settling in Paris — can it be that you do not know 
this.?^ He does not judge of things as my own father 
did. I think like the one and I shall act like the other. 
To think that after so much scientific work, after so 
many efforts for intellectual enfranchisement, I should 
be the theater of such inconsistency! 

“Honor commands me to give you back your 


102 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


promise. Circumstances are no longer the same as 
in the time — so recent and yet already so far away — 
when I asked you to give me your life. We promised 
each other trutli, perfect freedom. I can no longer 
offer Paris to you, nor proximity to your parents, 
nor the fortune, nor the mode of life which we have 
dreamed. I can only offer a more modest career, 
which has its burdens, which has no beauty. I still 
hear your voice, your dear voice, saying: ‘ You know 
that I should have gone with you, no matter where.' 
I hear it and take courage, and again I am afraid. 
Laurence, you are free, I ought to assure you that 
you are free. 

“ Or rather, no! No one is free! I, too, thought 
myself free to choose — and my choice is made with- 
out me. Yours — it is in you, it is made already, 
and I am afraid. 

“ To-morrow morning I shall carry my resignation 
to the School of Medicine, and shall busy myself with 
the removal of my things, for which I had already 
made arrangements. I shall take the rapide at nine 
in the evening, leaving the Avenue de PObservatoire 
at eight o’clock. If I have- received nothing from 
you, or if you have not yourself come, as you came 
one day, to bring me your answer, I shall know that 
you have not chosen me. 

“ Laurence, Laurence, I cannot end this letter thus. 
All my torn heart is crjring out for you. I love you 
and I expect you. It cannot be that you will forsake 
me! 

“ Ah, Laurence, whatever you may decide, I feel 
sure that I shall still love you. You have been the 
light of my youth, and it seems as if the light were 
about to go out. I am afraid, and my fear can have 
no effect upon a decision which has been made within 
me, without my will. 


« Pascal.” 


A YOUNG GIRL’S HEART 


103 


The eight pages of thin paper trembled in Lau- 
rence’s fingers. When she had finished reading she 
threw the letter on the coverlid, stretched herself, 
crossed her bare arms above her head, and closed her 
eyes, as if the better to concentrate her thoughts 
apart from the disturbing sunlight, which entered her 
chamber by the half-open window. The cool air in- 
vited her into the garden, but its appeal was unheeded. 
In the tumult of emotions which arose in her dark- 
ened heart she would fain have stifled thought, refused 
for the moment to decide. She lay there prostrate, 
only a fluttering of the eyelids, and at times an al- 
most imperceptible suffusion of color in the white 
cheeks, usually so polished and colorless, betraying 
the struggle to which, with all her self-command, she 
was a prey. 

How had she been able to suppress all evidence of 
her first impulse, compounded of pride and anger, 
against the audacious one who thus proved false to 
her confidence, him whom she herself had sought out, 
discovered, distinguished.^ Early launched into so- 
ciety, petted, courted, flattered, how many men, how 
many advantageous offers, had she not disdained, re- 
jected! He whom she would accept must be superior 
to all others, less petty, greater in mind, born to rule. 
He had come, she had recognized him, and deigning 
herself to make the advances, had inspired him with 
higher ambitions, greater haste to reach the goal. 
Together they were to carve out a future of success. 
And suddenly he was failing her on the pretext of 
family claims which he did not even admit, which he 
openly declared that he did not admit. He was leav- 
ing Paris, the School of Medicine, laboratory work, 
science, teaching, reputation, all those things which 
she as well as he had been accustomed to consider 
as living realities, to bury himself in the province. 


104 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

condemn himself to incessant slavery, to an existence 
without future, honor, pleasure. And it was this that 
he so generously offered her ! No, no, she would never 
consent to share this household heroism! What a 
light this event threw upon the character of her 
fiance! At the first blow of fate he bent his knees 
instead of stiffening himself to resist. He was not, 
then, the conquering hero she had imagined. The 
first test showed him cowardly, pusillanimous, in- 
capable of resisting the superstitions and scruples 
by which, like all weak people, he was attacked! No, 
she would not go with him in this desertion of prin- 
ciple ! She made an effort to despise him. 

A second voice protested against a condemnation 
so severe. Perhaps what seemed to her feebleness, 
weakness, was not precisely these. At twenty, even if 
one has taken more pains with the development of one’s 
intellect than of one’s sensibilities, yet, when one loves, 
one feels burning waves continually surging over the 
heart. Laurence recalled the intense sense of life which 
Pascal’s presence always gave her. Two evenings ago, 
in the garden, had not she held him at her mercy 
The obedient moon had come to enhance her victory. 
What spoils she had exacted from this broken and 
conquered man! When she had lightly brushed her 
lips across his eyes, his humiliated eyes, she had been 
aware of a moisture of which now she was ashamed 
for him, the mere memory of which yet agitated her 
most deliciously — in her pride or in her flesh.? 

But was she not attributing to herself a part she 
had not played.? Pascal’s love had simply accorded 
with his ambition. He had yielded to her of his own 
will. She had simply upheld him in a determination 
which he had already taken, a determination to which 
she had not even had power to hold him. Would he 
change it again, perhaps, if he saw her again.? No, 


A YOUNG GIRL’S HEART 105 

he was giving himself up to an instinct of sympathy 
— or of race — against which she felt any other force 
to be in vain. He was not asking counsel of her, he 
was not entreating her, he was deciding without her 
and against her. At most, at the close of the inter- 
view, he had been simply playing at emotion, in order 
to move her. And stiffening herself anew, Laurence 
gave herself up to contempt, to hatred, to all the 
bitterness which stirs up the lover’s fury as autumn 
winds stir up the dead leaves. 

The next minute she was picturing to herself how 
a sort of satisfaction, an unknown pleasure, might be 
found in the immolation of oneself to the one beloved, 
in sacrifice to a beloved will. Pious readings of long 
ago, religious effusions of a time long past and for- 
gotten, but which had left behind a lingering sweet- 
ness, — had they not promised such things ? Already 
in thought she was composing the telegram which she 
would send. “ Could you have doubted me, my 
friend? ” Then suddenly she repelled such weakness 
as unworthy of her. 

Thus tossed in a flux and reflux of opposing feel- 
ings, she became wearied, exhausted. She longed to 
cease thinking, to forget, plunge into sleep as into a 
healing spring. How the sunlight annoyed her, touch- 
ing her bed, drawing nearer and nearer to her face. 
Two or three times she felt a faint desire to rise and 
draw the curtains, yet could not bring herself to the 
slightest movement, as if the tumultuous beating of 
her heart constrained her to absolute immobility of 
body. 

Toward eleven o’clock, her mother, troubled at her 
absence, gave two or three gentle knocks upon her 
door, without eliciting a response. Timidly she 
knocked again, and upon a testy “ Come in ! ” Mme. 
Aveniere entered the room, anxiety written upon her 
face. 


106 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ What is the matter, darling? ” 

“ Nothing is the matter.” 

Nothing is the matter. What reply has ever been 
more torturing to mothers, lovers, those who search 
the depths of any heart, than these four words in all 
their insignificance? Beneath them hide all soul- 
tortures, all secret agonies, all that must not be 
spoken, all that one does not yet know, all that one 
dares not guess, all that, like the worm in the bud, has 
treacherously crept into human happiness. Mme. 
Aveniere, timid and prudent, was alarmed by this 
want of confidence which shut her away from her 
daughter’s sorrow. Not discouraged, she insisted 
with her most caressing voice : 

« You don’t feel ill? ” 

“ No.” 

‘‘ Yet you remain in bed. It is so fine out of doors.” 

‘‘ I am resting.” 

“ Won’t you come into the garden with me? ” 

“ Not this morning, thank you.” 

“ Your father is obliged to go away on business. 
He will dine out and not return till late. Will you not 
see him ? ” 

‘‘ Tell him I am a little weary. Perhaps this even- 
ing I ’ll wait up for him.” 

“ You ’ll get up to luncheon? ” 

“ I am not hungry.” 

“ And if Pascal comes to explain last evening’s 
absence? ” 

‘‘ He will not come.” 

“ You have received a letter from your fiance? ” 

I have no fiance.” 

She was herself surprised by the categorical as- 
sertion. Pascal was right then, when he said in his 
letter, that in hours of decision our choices are made 
in us, but without us, or that obscure elements of our 


A YOUNG GIRL’S HEART lOT 

consciousness, to which we have made no appeal, in- 
tervene in our determinations? All the morning long 
she had been looking by turns — and how many 
times ! — down the two roads which lay outstretched 
before her, the way of pride and of power to live in 
freedom, the way of love and sacrifice. She had 
thought the second abhorrent to her, yet she had 
looked that way quite as often as the other. It was 
a sudden impulse that turned her definitely from it. 

‘‘ Ah — my poor child ! ” sighed Mme. Aveniere, 
and quietly melted into tears. But Laurence refused 
to be pitied. 

“Why do you cry, mamma? Am I crying? He 
has given me back my word. He will go to Lyons. It 
is just as well.” 

“ My poor child ! ” repeated the mother, not per- 
ceiving how the exclamation nettled her daughter. 

When she was able to speak more at length, she 
went on : 

“ Yesterday, the day before yesterday, I was beg- 
ging your father to let you go away with him, far 
from us.” 

“ Father has nothing to do with it. If I wanted to 
go I should go.” 

“ I thought you loved him.” 

As if to defy her, Laurence exclaimed: 

“ Yes, I did love him, I love him still ! ” 

“ And you let him go ? ” 

“ So it seems.” 

Mme. Aveniere’s simple soul could understand noth- 
ing of such inconsistencies. To cut the interrogatory 
short, Laurence unceremoniously said as much: 

“ You can’t understand.” 

“ In my day — ” 

“ Women of the present day would understand 


108 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

“ Haw unhappy you must be ! ” exclaimed Mme. 
Aveniere. 

The girl longed to say, “ I am indeed ! ” but she 
warded off the caress which seemed imminent. 

“ Now won’t you be good to me, mamma? Draw 
the curtains. I want to sleep. I want no luncheon.” 

And when her mother had shut out the sunlight, 
establishing the pitying darkness in which one may 
freely give way to one’s grief, alone and despairing, 
like a little child who finds itself deserted, she turned 
her face to the wall and sobbed as if her heart would 
break. No one would see her, no mirror would reveal 
her own face to her, and she gave herself up to the love 
which she was determined to crush. She tore her 
heart with self-inflicted pain, as a conscript who muti- 
lates himself exercises more courage than would have 
been needed in going to war. Wounded and moaning, 
she never thought of changing her resolution. 

Mme. Aveniere came in later, but she pretended to 
be asleep. About two o’clock she rose, dressed 
slowly and with minute care, using all sorts of methods 
to efface the traces of tears, and an hour later ap- 
peared in the drawing-room, where her mother was 
receiving some farewell visits. She wore the ivory- 
colored gown the harmony of which Pascal had so 
acutely enjoyed two evenings before. The whiteness 
of her complexion could not be called pallor. Her 
hair beautifully dressed, the golden blond locks in 
fluffy curls above her brow, she smiled with a grace 
which knew itself to be enchanting. Every one com- 
plimented her on her looks, said pretty things to her 
— she accepted the honeyed words with the same 
tranquil air, assured of itself, which in society she 
always wore like a mask. Her mother, wondering, 
observing with consternation all her acts, her indiffer- 
ent remarks, could not recognize the girl of the morn- 


A YOUNG GIRL’S HEART 


109 


ing until she saw her secretly glance at the clock, with 
an expression of such utter misery as almost broke 
her heart. 

Time was passing slowly, inexorably. 

“ He, too, is counting the hours, over there,” 
thought Laurence. “ He is hoping for me, calling 
me, expecting me — no, he knew beforehand that I 
would not come* His letter plainly shows that. Then 
why does he not come himself.'^ It is for him to come 
and claim me, insist upon my going, take me by force 
if necessary. He must come — I will have him come.” 
Her will reached out into the distance to draw him, 
cast a spell upon him, constrain him to come to her. 
The entrance of a young man set her to trembling. 

It was Chassal. What indeed more natural than a 
last visit before the summer break-up ? Yet to the girl 
it seemed strange and a little suspicious. Her nerves 
were all a-quiver beneath her calmness ; she narrowly 
studied the young man, who came over to her to ask : 

‘‘ Pascal is going this evening? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ He has been telling me that he is going to settle 
in Lyons. It is simply insane. Don’t you think so. 
Mile. Aveniere? You could prevent it.” 

‘‘ Monsieur Rouvray is free.” 

Monsieur Rouvray, — it was a disowning. Felix 
Chassal was too acute not to understand it so. 

‘‘ For whom has he come ? ” Laurence was asking 
herself. “ For Pascal or for himself? For himself. 
It is for himself, I know — ” 

They exchanged a single glance of the very briefest, 
for each at once turned away from the other. Each 
was ashamed of betraying, he his friend, she her love, 
and of knowing that the other knew. Discovering 
themselves to be alike, they despised one another. 

“ She is charming even in her cruelty,” he was 
thinking. 


110 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ He is counting upon succeeding Pascal,” she was 
thinking. 

They spoke no farther. Very soon he departed, 
and she felt it a relief. 

She dined with her mother, surprised at being so 
hungry, though she had not eaten since the evening 
before. Her youth was already bringing her the com- 
fort of physical resistance. After dinner she went 
down into the garden, jealously guarding her solitude. 

‘‘ The air is too keen for you, mamma. Remain in 
the drawing-room. I shall come in very soon and we 
will wait together for father — very soon — won’t 
that do ? ” 

At any price she must be alone when nine o’clock 
should strike. 

The moon had not yet risen; she was glad of it, 
preferring the darkness. It was the same silence as 
two nights before, the same fragrance of jasmine and 
honeysuckle, the same bit of starry sky between the 
branches, the same peace of night, yet without Pascal 
all these pleasant things were as nothing. He was 
not there, with the strong warm life which, vanquished, 
he had laid at her feet. It was he who had won the 
day. Unhappy conqueror, he had escaped her, and 
was hastening away from Paris to yield himself pris- 
oner to the province, to the family, to poverty, — to 
every prison which strangles the will to enjoy and 
dominate. 

Ah, the poor fool ! To disdain the beauty, the in- 
telligence, she had cultivated for him! Worse than 
all, to bow her head to dust under the shame of a 
secret preference for material, worldly, selfish vani- 
ties. She had not been in the habit of discerning so 
clearly the motives for her acts, never having had oc- 
casion to search herself so profoundly. 

Well, no! She would lift up her head, she would 


A YOUNG GIRL’S HEART 111 

have the frankness to love herself openly more than 
anything in the world, more even than her love. 

She had reached this third renunciation, when 
through the open window she heard, half muffled, the 
nine strokes of the dining-room clock. Pascal was 
leaving her forever. 

Tears, the last she would shed for him, flowed from 
her eyes and were not wiped away. The night air 
would dry them. Already, above her slain, her dying 
love, she was beginning to think of vengeance. Others 
should pay dear in the course of her life for the choice 
by which she felt herself scarred as by a blow, and 
upon which she was determined to plume herself — 
others, and Pascal himself, if ever destiny brought 
them again together. 

‘‘ Laurence, are you not coming in.^ ” 

“ I am coming, mamma.” 

She rose, rigid, like one called from the tomb, who 
has not recovered the use of his limbs. The youth 
of her heart was in fact dead. 


VII 


THE RETREAT 

Whence indeed, had come the choice which forced 
itself upon Pascal against his interests, his ambitions, 
his strong belief in individuality, his love itself? He 
had begun to detect its symptoms two evenings before, 
after leaving Laurence. His previous interviews with 
the young girl had left him in a state of exaltation 
like that which believers call a state of grace; it is 
like a new freedom of movement among the duties of 
life, a lightness of the whole being, relieved of its bal- 
last. He was hardly in the rue Desbordes-Valmore, 
after leaving the garden, when, heavy of heart, he 
sounded with terror the depths of what he was ex- 
periencing. Revolting comparisons, as painful as in- 
sults, assailed him. He drove them away, but they 
returned upon him. For with stupefaction he dis- 
covered in himself, in the place of the fine enthusiasms 
of past days, a state of depression like that which one 
experiences on awakening in some shameful room in 
which youth has gone astray. Only it was not now 
his flesh that protested against a temporary abase- 
ment which a breath of fresh air might do away with, 
but his thought, a part of his true self, that in himself 
which he held most precious. 

Why? In conformity with his ambition he had 
been making clear the path of his future. His fiancee 
approved, urged it. They were in accord as to the 
purpose of life, and is not that a sign of predestined 


THE RETREAT 


113 


fove? The vision of her which he was carrying away, 
that caress from which his lightly touched eyes still 
shone, ought to transport him above the earth with 
joy and pride, and yet he felt himself humiliated, as 
if he had committed an act of cowardice. It was ab- 
surd, incomprehensible, obsessing. Was it then not 
true that our thought is its own master, is ours with- 
out servitude.? 

“ These are the last remnants of family sympathy, 
family weakness,” he at last concluded. “ By refusing 
the succession of my father I save my mother’s for- 
tune and assure to her and the younger children an 
honorable mediocrity. And I become free again. All 
is for the best.” 

He had not recovered entire tranquillity of mind 
when, the next morning, Melanie brought him a letter 
from Mme. Rouvray. Recriminations, complaints, 
would have strengthened his resolution. But in this 
letter there was not so much as an allusion to his re- 
turn, nothing but confidence in him, and the memory 
of his father. He had the memory of his father be- 
fore him, on the table, among the papers he was put- 
ting in order, in those last notes which the latter had 
written him on the threshold of death. He read 
and reread them, and he heard like a living utterance 
“ those voices of the past which speak to us in spite 
of ourselves, when our most sacred interests are at 
stake.” 

He searched his memory for the date when he had 
last seen him, before finding him prepared for the 
grave, in that immobility which seems to fix the essen- 
tial expression of life. And what was the expression 
on the face of this man who for sixty years had not 
ceased to contend against material difficulties, against 
insecurity and illness, against overwhelming responsi- 
bilities? He could never forget it; on those rigid 
8 


114 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


features, which in the night of the tomb would sooii 
be changed, decomposed, lose their character of hu- 
man personality, death had imprinted a calm, a peace, 
a serenity siich as evening spreads over the landscape, 
and which by the miracle of a few lines took on an 
immense grandeur, expanded as if all space was theirs, 
soared majestically, religiously, above all earthly 
things. 

The last time had not been more than a month 
before he had lost him. His father, unexpectedly sum- 
moned to Paris for a consultation, had come to the 
rue de I’Observatoire during his absence, had left word 
for Pascal to meet him on the terrace of the Cafe 
Manette. He had joined him there, and he could 
distinctly see him rising as he approached, his face 
lighted up with a kindly satisfied smile, kissing him 
before every one’s face. He himself, less demonstra- 
tive, had submitted rather coldly to the impulsive 
greeting, irked at being an object of attention, fretted 
by so public an effusion. A belated and quite unex- 
pected sense of shame for the irritation of that mo- 
ment came over him now, as one of the petty mean- 
nesses which one often commits and which are in fact 
only a diminished likeness of greater ones. This 
vanished life had never had for him all its meaning 
until since he had read the manuscript at Colletiere. 
The appalling task undertaken to safeguard the honor 
of the family name, carried within one fifth of com- 
pletion, must then remain unfinished, broken off, use- 
less. Brought back to this fact, Pascal again went 
over the figures, again convinced himself of the im- 
possibility of taking up the task. It would require 
several years to work up a practice in Paris, even 
if he had the powers of work which would be indis- 
pensable, if he was not to submit to a check in the 
succession of competitions which were to gain him a 


THE RETREAT 


115 


professorship in the Medical Faculty. Laurence’s 
dowry? It was to be chiefly an annual allowance of 
which he could not ask a share from a woman accus- 
tomed to comforts — luxuries even, and especially one 
so elegant and so much admired. No, no. In Paris 
he must not think of assuming any burden whatever, 
especially in the beginning, — the very time when 
circumstances required it. “A husband has not the 
disposition of the conjugal fortune.” And as he men- 
tally formulated this axiom, he recalled his mother’s 
words, offering all she possessed, as something per- 
fectly simple and natural. “ Between husband and 
wife there is nothing separate.” 

An abyss must have opened between his generation 
and that which preceded, since people reasoned so 
differently on all matters — inheritance, home — or 
were his parents perhaps an exception ? If they were 
exceptional, should he, who assumed superiority, de- 
scend to the common level? Again M. Aveniere’s 
arguments took on that offensive character which 
had so greatly irritated him, notwithstanding the 
conformity of their views, desires, purposes, — 
“ Mme. Rouvray will accommodate herself to a more 
modest style of living, your sister will attend free 
classes, your brother will receive a scholarship, the 
creditors will agree to make terms.” How mean it all 
sounded beside the entire sacrifice to which they who 
preceded him had consented ! 

In Lyons a practice was all ready for him. There • 
the thought of facing the obligations which had de- 
veloped upon him ceased to be chimerical. But he 
was losing sight of the disinterested scientific studies 
which he had planned to pursue, the influence which 
he had planned to exert by his teachings, his books, 
his discoveries, his communications, his fame. Prob- 
lematic influence, uncertain studies! Bound by his 


116 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


very professional life to observation, why not make 
the most of the Lyons practice for this very end ? It 
was only postponing the result for a few years, not 
renouncing it. Had many scholars, inventors, artists, 
been favored by fortune in material things.^ Was it 
not generally the case that of such she requires the 
more arduous energy ? Does she not test them, temper 
them, constrain them by their very obstacles to put 
forth all their powers? What did fortune ask of him 
now, but a little patience, the giving up, not of his ca- 
reer itself, which could still be carried forward in any 
place with the help of time, but only of its conspicu- 
ous, decorative features? So be it. Yet if he gave 
up Paris he must also give up the clinic which he had 
earned by good work, many facilities for work, many 
pleasures, habits, satisfactions, the matchless art of 
filling every day to the brim, all those various things, 
some evident, some undefinable, of which one only 
realizes the value when one is threatened with their 
loss. Was it not much — was it not enough? — and 
his love! 

He had tried to set his love apart from the ques- 
tion he had to decide, from the arena in which his 
struggle was going on. Laurence had said: “You 
know, my dear, that I should have gone with you, no 
matter where.” The question did not include her. 
And yet, little by little, she became its center. A 
secret, ever growing conviction warned him not to 
hope that she would go with him to Lyons. He fought 
against it, yet it crushed him. He repeated to himself, 
“ I have faith in Laurence,” and doubted. Fie could 
come to no conclusion, yet what a change since that 
hour in the garden when his betrothed had been 
adorned with a ray of moonlight as with an aureole 
of victory! 

He breakfasted hastily in his rooms and went out 


THE RETREAT 


117 


on some necessary errands. They made a welcome 
diversion from the intolerable perplexity in which his 
spirit was writhing. 

Before his father’s death, even before his engage- 
ment, he had given notice that he would leave his 
apartment in order to take one more suited to his 
taste and to the requirements of his profession. As 
he was likely to be out of town on the July quarter 
day, it had been necessary to make arrangements for 
storing his effects. He was not to enter upon the 
duties of his clinic before September, and he had 
planned to spend the two intervening months partly 
in Dauphiny, partly at the seaside, in the Avenieres’ 
villa. After that he and Laurence were to choose 
their new apartment. 

His first errand was to make arrangements for mov- 
ing. When he was asked if it was to another part of 
Paris, he unhesitatingly answered, ‘‘ No.” It was 
the effect of the inward struggle which he had been 
carrying on. 

“ To a suburb or the country.^ ” 

“ The country.” 

Reluctantly, one by one, the instructions were 
wrung from him. 

“ What city ? ” 

“ Lyons.” 

“ Then we must engage a car. For when.? ” 

For to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow — the time is very short. Luckily, it 
is not quarter day.” 

“ I wiU arrange for the car myself.” 

He directed his steps toward the station, to engage 
a car for his furniture. The die was cast; he was 
to leave Paris. Thus are our most important de- 
cisions often made by the solution of some small prac- 
tical difficulty, which forces itself upon us, requiring 
an immediate settlement. 


118 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


He went back to his rooms to dress. He had but 
little time before going to Passj. Laurence had 
bidden him come early. She was expecting him. 
Probably he would find her alone in the garden, before 
dinner, and there he would tell her of the change in 
his plans for their life. He would remind her of her 
promise to go with him, no matter where, he would 
claim her interest in the family duty which an almost 
incomprehensible heredity, or excessive sympathy 
seemed to constrain him to assume; he would set 
before her its generous aspects, above all he would try 
to prove to her that the future was still theirs and that 
their exile would be only temporary. In proportion 
as he warmed to the arguments by which he would win 
over the young girl, alleviate her disappointment, he 
saw more clearly the other side. She would not be- 
lieve in the possibility of a return. However he 
might persuade himself of it, she would see only the 
departure, the renunciation of fame, success, honors, 
all her woman’s hopes — a surrender of which M. 
Aveniere had spoken with scorn. 

“ Yes, but she loves me,” he repeated to himself, to 
keep up his courage. 

Her image rose before him as she had stood just 
where he was standing, looking down upon the green 
avenue, the Luxembourg, the far expanse of build- 
ings. Would she have come if she had not loved him.^ 
“ Freely and for always,” she had said. He heard 
again the words as they fell from her lips, but she 
had added : “ In the face of this Paris which is looking 
at us,” as if she had had an intuition of this future 
debate, and desired to suggest to him with a word, 
that she was no more to be transplanted than a green- 
house plant which can never be acclimated in any 
harsher air. 

By virtue of this memory alone he began to per- 


THE RETREAT 


119 


ceive that to the sacrifices already accepted he might 
perhaps be called to add this one. If he went back to 
the rue Desbordes-Valmore, would he have the cruelty 
to confront Laurence directly with her promise? He 
saw again the satin cheeks, the calm eyes, unclouded 
by any shadow. She could easily bring him to change 
his mind again, and each day it would be a new 
conflict between two forces battling for his will, of 
which one was all the more tenacious in proportion 
as he had been unaware of its existence in himself. 
It was then that he resolved to send her the “little 
blue,” which carried his excuses. Then, returning 
to his rooms, he wrote his letter. At last it was 
over; he had himself closed up his way of retreat. 
The only remaining chance of saving his happiness 
from wreck would be brought him or refused him 
by Laurence on the morrow. 

“ That is as it should be,” he said to himself. “ She, 
too, must make her choice.” 

What an evening was that which he passed in the 
room which would no longer be his ! Places are like 
persons ; when it is settled that we are to leave 
them we prolong our farewells in vain — the separa- 
tion has already begun. Everything around him 
spoke of the final departure. 

Next morning — the last day — the moving vans 
arrived. 

“ Leave the study till the last,” he said. 

If Laurence came he could still receive her there. 
She had received his letter — she knew. 

Laurence! Laurence! His whole being reached 
out for this hope. The furniture was fast disap- 
pearing through the open door. He looked over the 
balusters, then came back to lean over the balcony. 
Should he recognize her from that height — was she 
that girl who was getting out of a carriage as on 


120 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

that other day? No, it was not her walk, nor her 
figure. This other, perhaps — but she passed the 
door. 

“ Shall we take the study, sir? There is nothing 
else.” 

“ Take it.” 

A young man’s furniture is soon packed. The 
kitchen ware and glass need few baskets. The work 
goes as upon wheels. By noon the apartment was 
empty. The head of the force notified Pascal that 
his men were going for their lunch, and that at two 
o’clock the van would start for the Bercy station. 

“ But there is no need of your being here, sir ; you 
will settle with the boss. Slow train, Perrache sta- 
tion, Lyons, is that right? ” 

Pascal distributed fees, settled with Melanie, who 
was noisily expressing her grief, turned the key in 
the door and went down to meet his friends Chassal 
and Epervans at the Cafe Manette, as had been 
arranged. 

“ If any one asks for me,” he said to the con- 
cierge, “ I shall be back at two o’clock.” 

‘‘ You are keeping the key? ” 

‘‘ Yes ; I will give it you this evening. My trunks 
are upstairs.” 

‘‘ I ’ll bring them down for the carriage.” 

Felix and Hubert heard with amazement of the 
abrupt change of plan. The second burst out with: 
“ You are crazy,” but his words found no echo. All 
were silent. Pascal had announced the fact in a way 
which admitted of neither discussion nor criticism, 
and their silence witnessed to that sort of awe with 
which one hears of the suicide of one upon whom 
death had already set its mark. They dared not even 
inquire as to Laurence; they could judge best from 
events — they were sure of guessing. 


THE RETREAT 


1^1 


Pascal, distressed by their manner, thought to re- 
store their confidence, perhaps even to surprise them 
a little. 

“ My departure is not final,’’ he said loftily. ‘‘ In 
ten years I shall return. I invite you both to meet 
me here ten years hence. We shall see how each of 
us has turned out.” 

What is the good of such comparisons ? ” ob- 
jected Felix. 

“To guard against losing sight of one another. 
Besides, I need to feel sure of you.” 

“ You will soon succeed in Lyons,” said Hubert. 
“ That ’s one consolation. But what is the good 
of coming back.? In life as in cards one stakes his 
money, and wins or pays.” 

But Pascal, whose nerves were all on edge, replied 
emphatically : 

“ I am paying now. If I succeed only in working 
up a large and opulent practice in Lyons I shall con- 
sider that I have failed. I shall have failed because, 
as you know, I am good for more than that. My 
efforts, the success I have already won, warrant my 
conviction. I shall one day bring some new light to 
bear upon nervous diseases, and perhaps inscribe my 
name among men illustrious in the field of medicine. 
If I do not return in ten years, I give you leave to 
despise me, for I shall have sacrificed a life which, as 
you can testify, might have been worth while, to com- 
monplace family obligations which another would 
have refused without scruple.” 

His own words moved him deeply, but he at once 
perceived that they had produced no effect upon the 
others. The prudent Chassal vouchsafed no opinion, 
but Hubert could not refrain from replying gruffly : 

“ Come, come, this is childish. I can understand 
everything except that one can be so self-deceived. 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


You have chosen as you pleased — that is all right. 
But you ought to be brave enough to confess that 
it is final.” 

“Well, do you accept my invitation.? ” 

Felix smiled ironically : 

“ It ’s a good way off. Still, we can accept it.” 

“ Yes,” added the other, “ if you are living in Paris 
at that time.” 

Pascal rose, shook hands with both and declined 
their offer to accompany him to the station. 

“ This is not good-by, for we shall meet again. 
Au revoir, friends.” 

“ Before ten years hence? ” 

“No doubt we shall meet before that time. But 
that will not be the same thing. I wish you both 
good luck. For you the way is free.” 

“ It was free for you,” protested Hubert, more 
moved than he was willing to show. “ Any one is 
free to refuse an inheritance which consists only of 
debts. You have chosen otherwise. So much the 
worse for you. Au revoir, old fellow.” 

Felix, on the contrary, was even more cordial than 
usual. “ Good-by, my dear boy ! ” 

With these few commonplace words a long past 
of youthful excitements, hot-headed defiances of fate, 
ambitious projects, cherished in common, crumbled to 
earth like a ruined building. Pascal had no time to 
indulge in melancholy over the interment of his friend- 
ships. He hailed a victoria and hastened to his 
apartment — perhaps even now she had come ? As 
time went on, Laurence’s attitude was becoming more 
enigmatical because less spontaneous. But she must 
have written, telegraphed — he would surely receive 
some word from her. It was impossible that he should 
not. 

No one was waiting for him. No one had asked 


THE RETREAT 


12S 


for him. There was neither letter nor despatch. For 
a moment he hesitated, bewildered, before the door. 
Then he went away without a word. 

The partings of friends are unlike the partings 
of lovers — one hurries them over instead of griev- 
ing over them. Everything is kept to oneself, and 
only commonplaces are spoken. At the cafe after 
Pascal’s departure, Chassal and Epervans remained 
silent longer than is usual among young men. Ten 
long years were crowded into this little space of 
time. The silence was broken by Hubert, whose 
emotions clamored for utterance. 

“ It ’s too bad,” he began. And speaking of Pascal 
in the past, as we speak of the dead, “ He was the 
most gifted of us all, and I was very fond of him. 
Now he ’s gone to the deuce.” 

‘‘ No, no,” protested Felix feebly, vexed with the 
suggestion of Hubert’s first words. 

“ I tell you yes. How else can it be.? He thinks 
of coming back, but ten years hence he will be a con- 
firmed provincial, married, father of a family, lost 
to the career which ought to have been his, — a career 
which must be entered upon young if one is to attain 
to honors and dignities.” 

“ He will have saved his family.” 

“ It ’s very good of him. But the world gets on 
without morality. We have none, you and I.” 

‘‘ I beg your pardon.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, you pretend you have, but are n’t you 
working out your future along all sorts of under- 
ground ways which conceal the virtuous inhumanity 
of your aspirations.? It’s a good system to deceive 
the feeble-minded. In a democracy it is convenient to 
put up a wall and cover it with fine inscriptions, high- 
sounding words, — progress, solidarity, the powers 
of the people, — and work behind it — for oneself. 


124 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


In ten years, who knows? With the support of the 
women, who will believe that you love them when you 
solicit their influence, and that of the useful old men, 
whom you will not have flattered in vain, you will be 
on the threshold of a ministry, unless you have al- 
ready managed to reach it. As for me, I shall have 
made money, and all the more easily because I shall 
not bother myself about appearances. With money 
I shall command luxuries, pleasures, and even power, 
if my heart craves it. One day or another I shall 
invade your garden borders. Business for me. There 
is nothing else in these days.” 

Felix detested this sort of bombast, empty as a 
circus parade, this futile cynicism which claims to 
unmask pretenses. Who can ever be sure of what he 
is? Hypocrisy is the useful veil of many ways of 
thinking. Untutored savages may manage to get on 
without it, but not a civilized society. Yet, though 
Hubert annoyed, he interested him. Felix tolerated 
him, as a king in former times tolerated his fool; 
he was even ill at ease without him when he found 
himself alone with his tormenting desires. He rose 
to cut the conversation short when his friend arrested 
him with the question: 

“ What about the beautiful Laurence ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Oh, the marriage is off. That ’s certain. That 
little girl is n’t so keen about fishing up all the Rou- 
vrays that are on top of the earth, not to say those 
who are under ground.” 

“ She does deserve something better, to be sure,” 
Felix could not help saying. 

“ Oho ! ” exclaimed Hubert, fixing him with his 
eyes, and bursting into a laugh. What was the 
significance of that laugh? Both understood with- 
out farther explanation. Hubert shrugged his shoul- 


THE RETREAT IgS 

ders as if to shake off a useless weight, and 
concluded : 

“ After all, that is your business.” 

And each went his own way. 

Pascal, after turning himself round, like an animal 
which has lost the sense of direction, bent his steps 
toward the School of Medicine, carrying with him 
his resignation as head of a clinic. The Dean being 
absent, he saw^ Professor Arnaud, director of that 
department, and briefly explained to him his reasons 
for leaving. The absorbed professor barely paid 
enough heed to grasp the fact that this brilliant 
young man was giving up his appointment, and, curl- 
ing his lips disdainfully, he replied: 

‘‘ A position like yours is not one to be given up.” 

Family responsibilities — ” 

“No family responsibility is to be considered in 
comparison with the claims of science, sir.” 

The good man was hermetically sealed against 
everything outside of the pale of neurology. All 
absorbed in his subject, he went on: 

“ At this very time I am studying such a beautiful 
case — ” 

Then he remembered : “ It can no longer interest 
you.” 

“ I beg your pardon.” 

“ No, no, it cannot, since you are leaving — since 
you can leave — Adieu, sir, keep well.” 

Stung by the scornful brevity, the young man 
turned to go. The old master recalled him: 

“ M. Rouvray ! ” 

And with a sudden revulsion he held out both hands. 

“ I am sorry to lose you, very sorry. I know 
well what science has a right to expect from you. 
That must be a grave necessity which impels you to 
desert your post. It is not for me to know it. Go, 


126 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


work, my dear fellow. After all, there is nothing but 
that. And remember me, one of these days, if you 
turn again to science.” 

Upon his lips the word science took on an almost 
mystic meaning. Touched by his old teacher’s sud- 
den change of attitude, Pascal passed through the 
door of the school. Here, too, he was breaking with 
a long past. Every episode of this day had pierced 
his heart like so many arrows. He flew like the wind 
to the Avenue de I’Observatoire. 

“ Nothing for me.'* ” he asked. 

No one had come, but there was a pretty heavy 
mail — prospectuses of medical books, of surgical in- 
struments, cards of condolence — printed matter, 
nothing else. This absence of any message was the 
worst, the unimaginable torture. He had antici- 
pated resistance on the part of his betrothed, sup- 
plications, anger, refusal, above all a crowning effort 
to win him over by an exhibition of affection which 
he had not been sure that he could resist. But this 
rupture with no word, no sign of life — he never 
could have foreseen the agony of it. She was 
smiting him from afar, invisible and cruel as death. 
And yet how much more like Laurence was this im- 
mobility, if he had only thought about it, than any 
attempt to win him back by affection, wrath ir en- 
treaty! That pure white face, those tranquil eyes, 
would remain unchanged. When he thus evoked her 
image in that attitude of indifference, he felt a fierce 
desire to seize her, to hurt her. Was he then to go 
away without a word from her.^ Could it be pos- 
sible.? No, no, she was expecting him. She had been 
expecting him all day long ; she was hoping for him 
— there was still time for him to hasten to her. 

And he went. He left the carriage at the head of 
the rue Desbordes-Valmore, where it branches from 


THE RETREAT 


127 


the rue de la Tour. He wandered about, not know- 
ing what to resolve upon. Never was lover before 
the door of his beloved one so tossed between love 
and life. He saw two or three persons come out of 
the gate — he saw Felix Chassal. He had barely 
time to turn the first corner to conceal his presence. 
With embittered mind and torn heart he turned away. 
Why should he go in? Life was going on without 
him. She was receiving visits, meeting treachery 
halfway. He might have received the welcome of a 
ghost, had he gone in. 

When he reappeared in the Avenue de PObserva- 
toire he was walking like a somnambulist. He bade 
the concierge call a cab, and come up for the trunks. 
Somehow he found himself alone in his empty — his 
lamentably empty rooms. He went to the bay- 
window, opened it, and stood on the very spot where 
Laurence had stood so short a time ago. 

It was the closing hour of a beautiful day. Below 
in the street the lamps had not yet been lighted. 
The invading shadows made valleys of the Luxem- 
bourg Garden, the alleys, the intervals between the 
houses. The trailing clouds of red and purple which 
barred the horizon gave a wild glory to the evening. 
In the city nothing had stopped — a confused mur- 
mur arose, filling all the air. Night was coming on 
without that power which it has in the country over 
labor, over noise, over peace of heart. 

“ The coachman is getting impatient, sir. It is 
time to go.” It was the concierge speaking. 

“ Very well. I ’ll close up.” 

This Paris which he had so coveted, which from 
this place he had gathered up within his gaze, he be- 
held it at his feet for the last time, its potencies for 
life hardly veiled by the shadows. The lamps shining 
out here and there seemed already to be giving the 


128 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

signal for the new activities of pleasure. What mat- 
tered, in all this tumult, the small adventure of his 
departure ? 

“ Laurence, Laurence ! ” he cried, “ why did you 
not come.? ” 

Then he knew what is despair. He had no longer 
any ambition, no longer any friends, no longer his 
love, his pride. Into this last moment of the long day 
of agony all its bitterness was condensed. Even the 
mysterious strength which almost in spite of himself 
had directed his choice, which ought now to have sus- 
tained him, had also forsaken him. He no longer knew 
whether he had done well or ill ; he could think of noth- 
ing except of all with which he had broken. He turned 
his head away and wept, the pitiful tears of solitude 
which only they shed who lose some one most dear. 
The one whom he was losing was himself, of whom 
he no longer expected anything. His individual life 
was ended, his happiness was dead, and dead also 
that personal will without which no work can be 
accomplished. 

He positively must go. He drew down the blinds 
and groped his way to the door. When he turned 
the key he had the sensation of closing the tomb in 
which his youth lay buried. 


VIII 


THE CHAINS 

When one has lost much blood weakness induces a 
state of anesthesia. Pascal had seen his moral life 
flowing away through so many wounds that once in 
the railway car he felt nothing. Exhausted, he fell 
asleep. When he awoke it was a moment before he 
knew where he was. The air was warm and heavy — 
no doubt it weighed him down. He went out into 
the corridor. 

Though it was only three in the morning, it was no 
longer night. In summer, night is so short. A 
golden light was glowing in the east; the earth was 
still dark, but he could distinguish it, — level, uni- 
form, without undulations, but with here and there 
a dark blotch which indicated groups of trees. He 
lowered the window, and the cool breeze refreshed his 
face like pure water. Little by little the conscious- 
ness of suffering awoke in him. The locomotive, ac- 
celerating its speed, rent the air with sharp whistles 
as torturing as the cry of the peacocks in the garden 
at Colletiere. He could have believed himself carried 
back a few days, to the journey he had made when 
his father’s sudden illness had called him home. Was 
not this the same call that he heard, the same call 
multiplied? Whatever one’s interests, however seri- 
ous one’s occupations, one does not stop to discuss a 
telegram announcing death — one sets out. Thus, 
though his very happiness was at stake, he had set 

9 


130 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


out a second time. He recognized now the voice that 
he had heard. It came from beyond the tomb, but it 
was the same voice which had called him before. 

He could no more go back now than he could alight 
from that train, shooting along the rails. He was 
like a prisoner under guard. Forgetting his shat- 
tered, or, still worse, his impaired career, he soon had 
only one thought — Laurence. In a fever of self- 
imolation, of disinterestedness, he tried not to con- 
demn her. Condemning her, would he not be blasting 
his own youth, of which she was the resplendent 
image, his youth which at whatever cost he must 
preserve intact since it must be liis one great memory F 
Forcing himself to understand her even in her re- 
fusal, he deified her, like that Winged Victory which 
seems to cleave the air before her, unable either to 
pause or stoop. This disinterestedness restored to 
him a little of his pride. 

At Vienne, at seven in the morning, he took the 
tramway for Charavines, which he could hardly reach 
before midday. It is an interminable journey for 
every one — torture to one who is ill. Arriving, he 
gave his luggage in care of an employe, and alone 
and on foot took the road to CoUetiere. He had not 
announced his coming, no one expected him. In the 
phase of pained and ill-resigned submission through 
which he was passing, a first interview might have 
brought on a revulsion of feeling. He was in a con- 
dition to be irritated by anything that might be said. 
It is hard to bear things when the heart is galled, 
and so many awkward things are perpetrated in the 
family circle, where good intentions are held to be 
all-sufficient. The costly generosity which he had felt 
compelled to exercise to cover up Laurence’s deser- 
tion had left him only bitterness and a horror of any 
expression of gratitude, compassion or praise. He 


THE CHAINS 


131 


had acted as it had pleased him to act, let that be 
enough, once for all, and let him be spared all com- 
ment on his act. 

The great gate was wide open — they so seldom 
shut gates in the country. The magnolia blossoms 
had faded. The tuberoses and syringas were still 
hanging on. Weeds were growing on the ill-kept 
walk. Familiar things greeted him, and seemed the 
more indulgent to him by their silence. Beyond the 
hedge he saw the wheat fields, some already reaped, 
the others still whitening, and close by, beside the 
little Lake of Paladru that sparkled in the sunlight, 
were nets, reeds, a stranded bark. He was in his own 
home. These fields belonged to him. The old place 
received him with confidence — it had never doubted 
that he would keep it. 

Reaching the house, he raised the latch and went 
in, glad not to have met Claire and Gerard in the 
garden. As the door swung back and closed noisily, 
a voice above stairs called out: 

“ Who is there.? ” 

« It is I.” 

He sprang up the steps, and on the landing met 
his mother, hastening, yet with lingering step. Be- 
fore kissing her he had time to see at a glance how 
changed she was. Why had he not observed it be- 
fore.? So thin and pale, so shattered, it made his 
heart ache. For the first time in the two days of 
his sore wounding he felt a thrill of joy merely in 
saying gently, as if it were a matter of small im- 
portance, costing him nothing: 

“I have come to stay, mamma.” 

She looked at him, understood, and made no an- 
swer. Not one of the words which he had so dreaded, 
but which he would have heard without pain, now that 
detached from his own interests he saw her truly, 


132 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


her poor worn face, her feebleness. Her faded eyes 
filled — they were so little used to tears like this. 

“ My child,” she murmured at last. 

Th§ words fell upon Pascal’s parched heart like 
dew upon thirsty earth. He drew her into her room, 
unwilling that any presence should come between them. 
In a few moments, with the brevity of a legal docu- 
ment, he told her of his resignation, his definitive re- 
turn. She heard him without interruption, waiting 
in expectation of another confidence which did not 
follow. Then she gained courage to ask, hesitating, 
and the color mounting to her cheeks : 

“ And — Mile. Aveniere.'^ ” 

She dared not say ‘‘ Laurence ” nor “ your fiancee.” 
She had divined the truth. He neither winced nor 
showed embarrassment. 

“ Let us not speak of her — ever,” he said simply. 

He would keep her memory — dead though it 
might be — for himself alone. 

Mme. Rouvray made no protest against a decision 
which set her apart from him, but at once made all 
her son’s sorrow her own, with the addition of the 
personal injury inflicted upon herself from afar by 
the faithlessness of this girl whom she had never 
known, whom she would never know, whom she had 
instinctively feared, yet over whom she had extended 
in advance a maternal affection, always ready to ac- 
cept with heartfelt readiness every family tie. All 
this, too, he could read in her face. A word would 
have thrown them into each other’s arms. Respect 
for her son’s secret kept her quiet, and he forbade 
himself that self-pity which has its sweetness, but also 
its weak self-indulgence. With the new life, now defi- 
nitely his, a new strength was born in him. 

“ And Claire — and Gerard ? ” he asked, instinc- 
tively reaching out for those whom he had taken 
under his protection. 


THE CHAINS 


133 


“ They have gone to the Chartreuse of Sylve- 
Benite. They did not know that you would come 
to-day. I encourage them to make the most of the 
fine weather. They took food with them, and will not 
return before evening.” 

“ They left you alone ” 

“ Oh, for the day. And now you are here.” 

They took lunch alone together, and then went 
out to the bench before the house. The fragrance 
of syringas and tuberoses brought back to Pascal 
the garden of the rue Desbordes-Valmore. He was 
very far away when his mother’s voice, long silent, 
recalled him: 

“Your father often assured me — ” 

“ Of what ? ” 

“ That we might trust to you. He saw far.” 

After another silence she went on, moved by the 
thought of speaking with Pascal of him who was no 
longer there. 

“ Twenty years ago, when he told me of the deficit, 
he passed a long evening sitting where you are 
now. It was very nearly the same time of year, a 
little later. I knew what was distressing him. We 
had no concealments from one another, but he did 
not like to be disturbed when he was thinking. I 
had gone out to tell him that my fortune belonged 
to him, that I wanted him not to consider me, that 
with him I could accommodate myself to any fate.” 

She paused, without observing that her son was 
still listening — listening and comparing. 

“ At that time,” she went on, “ I was in much better 
health. I had been ill so long. Once or twice I thought 
to call him, but I saw that that would fret him. Men 
like him, like you, must reach their decisions alone. 
So I went back to my room and began to pray. That 
is what a woman can best do when her husband is in 


134 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


anxiety of that sort. It was very late when he came 
in. I asked him how he had decided. ‘ Oh, I have 
accepted,’ he said ; ‘ we shall pull through, you ’ll 
see.’ He laughed ; he was happy in his choice. The 
next morning he set in order all the practical results 
of his decision. He never complained of it, even in 
thought. I could hear him think.” 

Pascal gazed at his mother with respect, and said : 

“ He had you.” 

She colored a little, and slowly, timidly, slipping 
her hand into that of Pascal, said: 

“ Yes, God has asked a greater sacrifice of you. 
Believe me, you will not regret it.” 

He lifted the worn hand to his lips, and rested his 
brow upon it, with a longing to become for a few 
minutes a creature who is helped, sustained. She, at 
least, would never fail him. And he thought of Lau- 
rence, whom he had lost, voluntarily lost ; of Laurence, 
who would never see this peaceful garden, this bright 
landscape, this worn face, more speaking still, in which 
one could best understand that life neither begins 
nor ends with one generation. 

“ If I had not come back? ” he muraiured under his 
breath, as if thinking aloud. 

“ If you had not come back? ” repeated Mme. 
Rouvray, who felt that between them had risen an 
invisible and sinister presence. “ Oh, I should have 
finished paying with my property. After that, we 
should have done as we could. But why should you 
not have come back? ” 

He shook off his weakness and in a firm voice un- 
folded his plans: 

“ We shall go on as in the past. Your fortune 
must remain intact. Father always considered it 
apart. He pledged himself alone, I shall pledge my- 
self alone.” 


THE CHAINS 


185 


“ And me? And the younger children? ’’ 

‘‘ They are not of age, and you — you must safe- 
guard the family from too dangerous a risk. You 
must listen to me, mamma, at this time. No one is 
bound to do the impossible, as my father taught you 
when he set you apart from every obligation. I shall 
suffice for this.” 

He spoke like the head of a family. In surprise 
she recognized another voice, one that gave her con- 
fidence, and would certainly put things and people 
in their places. 

“ It is for me,” he went on, ‘‘ first of all, to take 
charge of the interest. Little by little, as I may be 
able, I shall pay off the capital that remains due. The 
creditors will make such terms as I require, seeing 
I have not as yet taken the act of inheritance. I 
shall settle in Lyons as soon as possible — perhaps 
I shall go the day after to-morrow. It will not do 
to lose time if I want to save the greater part of 
my father’s practice — otherwise there will be none 
of it left.” 

“ I will go with you.” 

“ You were resting here.” 

“ No, no, you will need me for many explanations, 
much information. I used to live very close to your 
father. My presence will be useful to you, especially 
in the early days.” 

“ You are right. But Claire and Gerard? ” 

“ They will stay here with Aunt Sophie. You 
are willing that she should come? ” 

“ Of course.” 

‘‘ At their age the country is so good for them. 
You will take your vacation in August, will you not? ” 

“ I am not sure. I want to make the most of the 
summer, when the other doctors are away, to make 
sure of the future. But you will come back to Col- 
letiere to be with the little ones.” 


136 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

He said “ the little ones ” according to old family 
habit. Already he was considering himself as their 
guardian, and was surprised to find himself taking 
up his new duties with such a sure hand. It gave 
him a sort of secret pride, after the prostration of 
the night, in which he had thought his strength of 
mind impaired. His pride had increased so far as 
to dissipate his bitterness, at least for the moment, 
when turning toward his mother he saw her dear face 
transformed, made youthful, with hope. 

‘‘ Listen, Pascal,” she said almost solemnly. ‘‘ It 
is God who has inspired you with these resolutions.” 

“ Oh, God ! ” he protested, but gently, not to dis- 
tress her. 

“ Yes. You do not yet know him, but I know him. 
That evening when you learned of our past, I found 
you — forgive me — so aloof from our troubles, so 
absorbed in your own future, that before I left you 
I was in despair. For a second time I was losing 
your father, since his work was destined to end with 
him. How could I go on living alone, when I had 
lived with another for thirty years, blessed by an 
affection which grew deeper every day.^^ We think 
we love when we are young, but we know nothing of 
the power of love till we have grown old together. 
No one can describe the wrench of such a separation. 
All that remained to me of him was his unfinished 
task, — the children to bring up, and this debt which 
he made it a point of honor to pay off. Honor was 
to him something sacred. And you were leaving 
me alone to carry out all this. It seemed to me then 
that I was at the bottom of an abyss from which I 
could never get out. You had not held out a hand 
to me. I could not pray, but I had prayed so much 
before in my distress that from it I received divine 
succor. I seemed to see our Saviour bending over 


THE CHAINS 


137 


me, lifting me up, telling me to leave it all to him. 
And I felt myself reassured. I did leave it all to 
him. I realized that I could live on. I had asked 
nothing of you. When I saw you come back I felt 
sure that he sent you. You must believe me, Pascal, 
you must believe me.” 

He had not interrupted her, he had even followed 
all the phases of her story in her illuminated features. 
The poor wasted face, worn by grief and years, took 
on that expression which one sees on the faces of 
devout first communicants, of novices in religious com- 
munities, or of very pure young girls when they 
betroth themselves with all their heart, 

“ I do believe you, mamma,” he said. 

And with alert observation he asked himself what 
were these mysterious powers which escaped analysis, 
what was that religious force which had preserved 
his mother from despair, what that appeal of the 
endangered race which he himself had heard, con- 
straining him to leave all, even his very happiness. 
And at her side, who leaned against him in the sum- 
mer warmth tempered by the shadow of the trees, 
amid these calm, familiar things, he at last found 
some degree of comfort. 

“ The master is asked for,” said the servant, com- 
ing out to them. 

“ What is it.? ” 

“ Some sick persons.” 

“ Already .? ” he said, smiling. What sort of sick 
persons ? ” 

“ Oh, folks of no consequence.” 

“ I will come.” 

Then turning to his mother : ‘‘ This is the practice 
which one does n’t lose.” 

No doubt he had been seen in the tramway, or 
coming from Charavines to Colletiere. Human suf- 
fering is quick at such knowledge. 


138 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

He gave the necessary advice, but one of the 
peasants who had consulted him lingered. 

“Well, what are you waiting for? ” 

“ To pay.” 

“Pay? No, it’s all free at Colletiere.” 

“ But I am able to pay.” 

“ Thank you, friend, it is not worth while. Follow 
my prescription carefully, your trouble is not the 
affair of one day.” 

The peasant had already pulled out a stout leather 
bag which he ostentatiously exhibited. A little vanity 
served as stimulant to honesty. 

“ Here are forty cents.” 

Pascal, nettled by his insistence, replied: 

“ Well, then, it ’s not much.” 

The good fellow, who had failed to produce his 
effect, looked sadly at the doctor, murmuring : 

“ It ’s not nothing when you have to work for it.” 

“ You are right. Take them back.” 

“ No. Must be just.” 

For the first time the young man found himself in 
direct contact with that humanity which knows the 
worth of labor and does not diagnose the knowledge 
as they do in the great cities. Life takes on different 
values when one sees it from near by. He went back 
to his mother and showed her the coin : 

“ I shall have it framed. It is my first real fee. 
Till now I knew nothing of the value of money.” 

Claire and Gerard came in from Sylve-Benite, in 
their great sun hats, with faces burned by the out- 
door air; she with her hands full of wild-flowers, he 
bringing mushrooms in a handkerchief. They had 
passed a happy day out of doors, and notwithstand- 
ing their mourning clothes, they exhaled a sense of 
physical joy. They appeared far from enthusiastic 
over Pascal’s return, especially Claire, who was by 


THE CHAINS 


139 


nature as independent as a young goat. A few hours 
earlier Pascal would have shown irritation or ill will. 
He simply thought that he must win them over, and 
that he could do it. 

Leaving them with their mother, he went out with- 
out speaking, going alone to the cemetery of Chara- 
vines. It is close to the church, surrounded by wheat 
fields, hardly distinguishable from the fields. The 
family vault, under two contiguous slabs of stone, was 
a simple front of masonry surrounded by a stone 
cross — the only monument in the assemblage of box- 
bordered poppy-brightened little graves, the sim- 
plicity of which was not disturbed by its presence. 
The wall was half covered with ivy, which climbed 
to the cross. Its foliage partly concealed the more 
ancient inscriptions, but the recent ones were still un- 
covered, — the same name repeated over and over 
again. Several generations of Rouvrays had been 
laid here to sleep since the family had settled in 
Colletiere. 

In spite of himself Pascal paused at the inscription : 

Frangois Rouvray 
1805-1871^ 

It was his grandfather, he by whom, in fact, his own 
career had been blighted, and his love shattered. But 
he thought only of his early childhood, when he had 
led him into the woods, stooping painfully to gather 
wild-flowers for him, gratifying all his whims. Did 
not he owe him, in that far-away past, the lasting 
sweetness of those early memories ? 

At the foot of the list a name was still wanting, yet 
he nevertheless read: Pierre Rouvray, 183Jf-189Jf, 
as if the inscription had already been cut. The name 
signified, would in the future signify for him, for 


UO THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


those who would come after him, all that heroic de- 
fense which, refusing to surrender, had arrested the 
fall of his house. That vanished life, which had not 
yielded up its secret, had to its last day protected 
him like a buckler. In its shelter he had been able, 
in all freedom, to develop his powers. He would em- 
ploy in the same cause those powers whose develop- 
ment he owed to him; he in his turn would protect 
his race. The chain of generations should not be 
broken by him! 

Ah, in how many families of ancient lineage is it 
not possible to see repeated the pious act of Antigone, 
gathering together her dead on the field of battle! 
Bending there, she thinks neither of her betrothed, nor 
of the nuptial happiness which awaits her, nor of the 
child whom it will be so sweet to nourish and bring 
up. She will think of them afterward, when her ac- 
complished task permits her to weep for herself. Till 
then she has not the leisure — she must watch over 
the sepulchers which might be profaned. . . . 

Pascal, following down on the marble slab the va- 
cant space reserved for future names — his own — 
reached the Requiescant in pace which terminated the 
inscriptions. That our dead may rest in peace noth- 
ing upon earth must be able to accuse them, they must 
be free from all obligations. Let his dead, then, rest 
beneath his care! And a high apprehension of the 
work to be done awoke in him at last an emotion 
as powerful as that of love, an emotion in which 
Laurence had no part. 

He had meditated there longer than he could have 
believed. When he left the cemetery, night had in- 
vaded the fields beside the Pure which he had to cross. 
The reapers were gathering up the last sheaves. 
He replied pleasantly to their salutations — “ Good 
night, Mr. Pascal.” These men and women, who had 


THE CHAINS 


141 


been toiling under the sun, were chatting together, 
laughing joyously. The last rays of light showed 
their happy faces — the work had gone well, a re- 
freshing wind breathed over their sweaty brows. The 
peace of the hour which announces the repose of earth 
enveloped them, penetrated them, and they yielded 
themselves to it unresistingly. 

‘‘ Like them,” said Pascal to himself, “ I have be- 
come a serf. Like them, I will bravely bear the burden 
of the day. I am no longer a free man.” 



f 


BOOK SECOND 

THE GOAL 


1 was a man; that is to say^ a fighter, — Goethe. 




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I 


THE RETURN TO THE LATIN QUARTER 

The beginning of November, date of the re-opening 
of classes, awakens in all the Latin Quarter a joyous 
animation, comparable to the arrival of a troop in 
desirable quarters at the end of a day of maneuvers. 

In the inner court of the new School of Medicine, 
especially in the great hall, before the white 
placards containing the programs, animation had 
taken on an almost revolutionary character. Every 
one was openly blaming a nomination, crying scan- 
dal. Near the allegorical picture of Nature unveiling 
before Science^ at the foot of the staircase, a group 
was noisily discussing: 

“ Who is this Rouvray.'* ” 

‘‘ A little doctor from Lyons.” 

“ One of the new appointments ? ” 

“Yes, he is going to substitute for Amaud, who is 
ill, in the chair of experimental pathology.” 

“ Only that ! ” 

An interne, Raymond Gardane, coming down the 
staircase in company with a stranger — no doubt a 
new student of mature years — was appealed to by 
the conspirators : 

“ Gardane, you are from Lyons, do you know this 
Rouvray ? ” 

“ This Rouvray out of the country.?^ ” 

The young man contemplated his interlocutors a 

lO 


146 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


moment with mischief in his eyes, then presented his 
companion : 

“ Dr. Pascal Rouvray.” 

The latter took advantage of the general surprise 
to add good-naturedly: 

“ Who comes from the country, like yourselves, no 
doubt, sirs. Like all France.” 

“Like everybody,” added Gardane, pointing to a 
Roumanian and a negro who were hastening to 
register. 

Every one saluted, laughing; the ice was broken. 
Pascal and the interne j)assed out through the door, 
going up the rue de PEcole-de-Medecine and coming 
out on the Boulevard Saint-Michel. The former, ab- 
sorbed in memories, concluded aloud with the words: 

“ Thirteen years.” 

“ Thirteen years, my dear master ? ” repeated the 
interne. 

But he used the appellation with familiarity; he 
would not have been so false to tradition as to 
show respect to an elder, even though the latter, witli 
his distant and authoritative manner, naturally in- 
spired it. 

“ It is a little more than thirteen years since I 
handed in my resignation as head of a clinic.” 

Gardane uttered an exclamation of astonishment. 

“You were head of a clinic here! And you gave 
it up ! ” 

“ Yes, I am back again, you see.” 

The two men, who had paused before choosing their 
direction, gazed questioningly at one another. The 
younger was wondering what tragedy could have been 
the motive of so unusual a departure — not less un- 
usual than the return, which was surprising the whole 
school. And the new appointee was studying in this 
twenty-five-year-old countenance his own past, living 


RETURN TO THE LATIN QUARTER 147 

again in another. His mind harked back to the epi- 
sode which had affected his career, and contrary to 
all prevision had not damaged it, and discovered in 
the fact a more general indication. “ One day or an- 
other,” he thought, “this one, too, will be subjected 
to the same ordeal. In my case it was obvious, 
startling. More often it is disguised, and by so much 
the more dangerous. But every life implicates a 
choice — either to adapt oneself to obligations which 
circumstances create for each one of us, or to avoid 
them, play them false ; to subordinate individual 
powers to one’s origin, one’s race, its deeds, its coun- 
try, or choose to make the most of them as a source 
of free enjoyment — ” 

This Raymond Gardane, who had like himself for- 
merly come from Lyons through ambition, more par- 
ticularly associated with Gerard Rouvray, who was 
near to him in age, — had been encouraged in his 
studies by Pascal, who now found him again in Paris, 
and through his intermediary was coming in contact 
with the new generation, which seemed so little dis- 
posed to welcome him. Paris, jealous of its preroga- 
tives, received with disdain, with hostility, this far 
from youthful appointee whom a jury, overborne by 
Amaud’s ascendancy, had, contrary to custom, im- 
posed upon it. Not that he did not deserve the nomi- 
nation. The preface which he had written for his 
father’s posthumous treatise on nervous diseases, his 
own work on meningitis, the outcome of his doctor’s 
thesis, above all, the discovery which had almost given 
him celebrity, of an ingeniously mineralized serum 
which made it possible to increase the tension of neu- 
rasthenics, instead of imparting a false exhilaration, 
like a tonic, to increase the vital powers, bring them 
into equipoise, — these, in addition to his reputation 
as a practitioner, would infallibly have designated him 


148 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


for the nomination anywhere outside of France. In 
France every public career is confined within a fixed 
line of promotion, competitive examinations are, so to 
speak, determined in advance, and are fiercely watched 
by the professors in their inordinate desire to push 
forward their own pupils. Happily Arnaud had re- 
membered Pascal, had covered him with his authority. 
Finally, he had profited by the reaction which was 
beginning to make itself felt against the subjection 
of the Medical School to the Pasteur Institute, the 
Academy of Sciences, to laboratory work, and to that 
thoroughly German attempt to deduce general and 
absolute conclusions from lateral experiments, of 
which he had become aware in his early youth, and 
against which he had uttered a warning to medical 
practitioners. 

Physically he had changed little. His erect head, 
without a grey hair, his rapid motions, lightly carried 
off his forty years. His figure had gained in elas- 
ticity but hardly in weight. His imperious but calm 
manner implied a habit of constant discipline In fact, 
one might have taken him for a contemporary of 
Raymond Gardane, but for the lines which accentuated 
the corners of his mouth, the more direct but care-free 
expression of countenance, and a self-possession in- 
compatible with the exuberance of so fortunate an 
age. It is true that the gratification in which he 
throve like a plant in the sunlight contributed to keep 
him young. In thus intimately knitting his present 
life to his former hopes he experienced the satisfac- 
tion of a conqueror who revisits the scene of a former 
defeat. He therefore kept his hold on the interne 
when the latter manifested an intention to beat a re- 
treat — he needed a witness. 

‘‘ You are in a hurry.? No, no. Show me the Latin 
Quarter. It seems to me that I can find it nowhere.” 


RETURN TO THE LATIN QUARTER 149 

“ Why, nothing has been changed — the Cluny 
Square — perhaps — and the Sorbonne.” 

Let ’s go to the Sorbonne and auscultate your 
comrades.” 

The decorations of the new Sorbonne are not with- 
out beauty, even an appropriate beauty. But noth- 
ing of the past remains, neither the old court nor the 
old fa9ades. An atmosphere of coldness and indif- 
ference emanates from its white walls. It seems like 
one of those caravansaries which one traverses with 
rapid step for want of anything which might arouse his 
interest. And yet it was here that Pantagruel sus- 
tained his thesis ‘‘ for the space of six weeks from 
four o’clock in the morning until six o’clock in the 
evening.” Of the former generations of students not 
a trace remains. The latest comer finds it easy to 
forget them. In the waiting hall Pascal was aston- 
ished at the sense of pressure, the hostility to dawdling 
which might be read on all countenances, and also at 
the number of women students. 

“Are there as many in the Medical School?” 

“ To be sure.” 

They all carried a serviette under the arm as a 
matter of custom. Their dress was relieved by none 
of those frankly coquettish details which are seen with 
a certain admiration on the corsage or in the hair of 
the Parisian working girl. He distinguished many 
foreign types, a classic Russian nihilist with disquiet- 
ing eyes, German girls in spectacles hermetically 
buttoned up in tight-fitting coats. Perhaps he was 
mistaken, but he preferred to be mistaken, in thinking 
that the young men who spoke to these girls met 
them upon a footing of impartial good fellowship, al- 
most destitute of gallantry. 

“ Look out for their rivalry,” thought Pascal. 
“ They are more patient than the men, they have 
fewer needs.” 


150 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

He drew his companion toward the stairs leading 
to the library. On the landing is a painting by Roche- 
grosse, representing The human Soul awaking to 
Poetry. It was not without difficulty that they made 
their way into a crowded amphitheater. A professor 
of medieval literature was lecturing on the origins 
of the Divine Comedy. Ah, the delicious discourse, 
where erudition flowed warm, changing form and 
color like one of those theatrical personages, so de- 
lightful to Italians, and whom they call “ trans- 
formists.” The discourse resembled a magic lantern, 
showing a pageant of the society of ancient times with 
its costumes, manners, usages, ways of feeling. 
Open squares, taverns, cookshops, workshops, stalls, 
sacristies, churches, appeared by turns with their 
swarming, singing, eating, drinking, working, pray- 
ing crowds. And while these pictures followed one 
another a rich, cheerful voice commented, described 
a building, sketched a physiognomy, drew a portrait 
with quick, graceful gestures, and a surety of judg- 
ment almost concealed under the zest of the words. 

Pascal had come to see the audience, but he was cap- 
tivated by the lecture. Absorbed in his profession, he 
had not for a long time enjoyed so refined a pleasure. 
Delighted to find himself still so responsive, he smiled 
as he savored one by one the limpid and significant 
phrases. “ What a j oy to live in such a part of 
France,” he thought. No other country knows such 
grace, such ease, such moderation.” 

His kind genius was offering him an example of 
that erudition which men like Gebhard and Boissier 
knew how to make a servant of life, giving a winged 
charm to science, which proves to be futile enough 
when her teachings are detached from reality. Mak- 
ing use of familiar comparisons, Pascal said to him- 
self that instead of presenting anatomical skeletons 


RETURN TO THE LATIN QUARTER 151 

the professor was resurrecting the dead in beautiful 
forms with circulating blood. And he understood the 
art of the humanist the better for having himself 
traveled a long road, which, by way of abstractions 
and theories, had led him to the patient observation 
of related things. 

“ These fellows are in luck,” he concluded, looking 
over the audience. To his profound amazement he at 
once observed that an abyss lay between it and the 
speaker. If the two had been in harmony he would 
have known it by an inperceptible quivering of the 
features, by the almost inaudible yet evident murmur 
which responds to every shade of expression. Surely 
the address deserved to be so accompanied. But the 
Russian nihilist girl was assassinating with contemp- 
tuous glances the doctor of the Sorbonne who was 
capable of introducing a note of imagination into a 
register of facts ; the German girls with uplifted 
stylograph were watching for dates which were never 
mentioned, one student was totting up his accounts, 
another was sketching a machine. And all these at- 
tentive, serious, tense young faces, instead of making 
the most of the offered opportunity to drink at the 
spring where the Muses had quenched their thirst, 
were looking out for text-book formulas, that they 
might note them in their blank books ! For the books 
remained blank ! How note down a passing vision, an 
incomparable procession of movements and colors? 
The young people were visibly disconcerted. They 
had expected to learn, to be instructed, to collect 
facts, write reports, digest minutes, retain notions, 
and here they were being constrained to enjoy! 
There is a time for everything. 

Exasperated, Pascal left the room with Ray- 
mond Gardane, who had long been giving signs of 
impatience. 


15^ THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ They are blind ! ” he exclaimed in the passage. 
“ They understand nothing.” 

Gardane undertook the defense of the students. 

“ Oh, they are in a hurry to enter upon their work, 
to make money, to succeed. What is the good of a 
course like that ? ” 

Pascal pointed to the painting by Rochegrosse: 

“For that: to awaken their soulsJ*^ 

“ What is poetry ? ” asked the interne. 

“ Not everything is to be analyzed by reason, my 
friend. What is poetry ? I saw it a few moments ago, 
rising from the past at the professor’s voice. I see it 
rising, like a mist, from all living things. It is the 
forecast of a new order of things. It is worth while 
to know this.” 

“ Not for making a living.” 

Thus through his guide Pascal received a direct 
intimation of the practical progress wrought out by 
that individualism whose enthusiasms he had shared 
during his prentice years. 

“ Let us look farther,” he said. 

They went up the rue des Ecoles and paused before 
the Cafe Manette. Though it was early November, 
there was no sharpness in the air, but a tempered 
softness such as belongs to late autumn, and they 
took chairs on the terrace. All around was the usual 
idleness of the Quarter before occupations have re- 
sumed their normal course. Nearly all the tables 
were occupied, indoors as well as out. A murmur of 
conversation arose in all directions. After a moment 
Pascal asked in surprise: 

“ What language are they speaking ? ” 

“ Roumanian on the left, Spanish on the right. A 
good many come from South America. . You might 
also hear modern Greek, several Slavonic dialects, a 
little Japanese — ” 


RETURN TO THE LATIN QUARTER 153 

“ I should prefer French.” 

By way of compensation the South was noisily chat- 
tering it around a billiard table. Pascal with awak- 
ened curiosity was running over the names of the pa- 
pers which lay all around, “ The Auto,” “ The Sport- 
ing Journal.” He recalled the beautiful days of the 
young reviews and all the theories of art, science, bi- 
ology, which he had discussed in this very place with 
the companions of his youth. Behind him on the other 
side of the window a group was debating with a great 
air of mystery. Gardane explained that it was a 
cenacle of men of letters. Bits of phrases floated 
through the open window — they referred only to the 
theater — especially to the receipts. 

“ In my time,” observed Pascal, “ we had another 
sort of bright ideas.” 

‘‘ Like the new ones, then? ” asked Gardane. 

“ The new ones ? ” 

“ Yes, there is a new generation which takes an 
interest in ideas.” 

What sort of ideas ? ” 

“ I ’m sure I don’t know. Traditionalism, positiv- 
ism, which is n’t very far off from it. Or perhaps a 
sort of democratic ideal. Or else the power of associa- 
tions, syndicates — a heap of things — I don’t know 
what.” 

“ A heap of things which are not the pursuit of a 
personal aim. That has not been seen among French 
youth this long time. And you? ” 

“ Oh, I,” said Gardane laughing, and showing 
a fine set of polished teeth, — ‘‘I am absorbed 
elsewhere.” 

They rose and went down the Boulevard Saint- 
Michel. There was nothing to distinguish the well- 
dressed, quiet students who passed along from any 
other category of persons. The Latin Quarter was 


154 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


losing its individuality, all the more because its 
later arrivals crossed the river every evening. One 
hardly met any of those young women of light morals, 
adorned without too much cost with that special Pa- 
risian charm which conceals all appearance of venality, 
and seems, like M. Jourdain’s father, to substitute 
exchanges of courtesy for the exchanges of the market- 
place. Pascal remarked their absence. 

“ Yes,” replied his guide. What ’s the use of 
mixing up sentiment with pleasure.? We keep them 
apart now, or we seek love elsewhere.” 

He would have taken leave, but Pascal sought to 
detain him. 

“ Dine with me, Raymond. I have invited my two 
old friends, Felix Chassal and Hubert Epervans, to 
dine at the Cafe Manette.” 

“At Manette.? ” repeated Gardane, as if to point 
out that such a choice savored somewhat of the 
province. 

“ Yes, because of old times.” ^ 

“ I can’t. M. Chassal and M. Epervans are worth 
meeting, but I am going to a musical society this 
evening.” 

“ Give up your musical society.” 

“ At Mme. Aunois’s house.” 

“ Ah,” said Pascal and pressed him no farther. 

Mme. Aunois was his sister, and was also living in 
Paris. For a few minutes he followed the disappear- 
ing Gardane with his eyes. To see him, dapper in 
figure, light of step, was to recall his own person of 
olden days, of the time when he loved Laurence Ave- 
niere, and while he envied him his youth he could not 
repress a vague disquietude as he thought of Claire. 
Gardane went much to the Aunois’. Claire, inde- 
pendent, ardent for life, often manifested a freakish 
humor toward her brother, now coaxing and confiden- 


RETURN TO THE LATIN QUARTER 155 

tial, as if he took the place of her lost parents, and 
again distant, absorbed, — absorbed as Gardane had 
been. But he quickly shook off these vague fears and 
gave himself unreservedly to the pleasure of linking 
the past to the present moment. He went up the 
boulevard to where it crosses the Avenue de I’Observa- 
toire. Before No. 22 he raised his head. The night 
had already fallen. He counted: one, two, three, 
four, five. There was a light in the windows of his 
former apartment. What unknown young man was 
there beginning life.^ What hopes, what dreams, what 
loves were hidden behind those transparent curtains.? 

He had never passed them since. In his former 
visits to Paris he had subjected himself to a disci- 
pline which left him no leisure. For the first time he 
permitted himself to look back from that spot. 

With rapid thought he reviewed the thirteen years 
that lay between him and that past. The return to 
Lyons, with all the renunciation that it implied, the 
substitution of a practical career for a scientific life, 
had resulted, as might have been expected, in immedi- 
ate financial success. In no other city of France, per- 
haps, is the respect of family tradition, love of the 
name, carried so far as in Lyons. His father’s repu- 
tation had at once served him, bringing to the son the 
greater part of his practice. He looked back upon 
that time as upon a whirlwind of work, into which he 
threw himself that he might forget. It was symbol- 
ized in a grateful face, elevated by faith, often turned 
toward him, attentive and gentle, as if seeking to 
please him, to make his task easier, and from which 
emanated a solace, a peace, and as it were a reward — 
the dear face of his mother. It was thus that he had 
been enabled not only to confront the burdens of the 
succession, but to complete the education of Claire 
and Gerard. 


156 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


After three or four years of a life thus filled to the 
brim, he had taken the opportunity of a summons to 
Paris in consultation, to look up some of his old 
teachers, among others Professor Amaud. 

“ Why do you give up the game ? ” asked the 
latter with his usual bluntness. “ You had so early 
begun to win, nothing is lost at your age.” 

“ What would you have me do ? ” 

“ Keep up relations with Paris. We have not for- 
gotten you yet. Why don’t you arrange to take your 
professional occupations a little more easily, take up 
some laboratory work, some scientific research.'^ And 
then come back some day and stand an examination 
for an appointment. It ’s an unusual way, perhaps 
it has never been followed, but there is nothing 
against it. Once passed as a professor in Paris, 
you ’ll soon find an opportunity to show what you 
are.” 

Pascal had kept this counsel in mind. He had man- 
aged to lead a sort of double life, on one side visits 
and consultations, on the other studies, which soon 
showed results in communications to medical journals, 
to the Anatomical and Biological Societies, where they 
awakened intense interest. Thus at forty years of 
age, already known in the medical world by his writ- 
ings and his discovery, he had lately succeeded in the 
examination for a professorship in Paris — an un- 
usual event. Arnaud, who was then ill, insisted that 
he should be appointed to take his classes. 

He was no longer in a position to be embarrassed 
by the removal to Paris, though it involved the giving 
up of a large practice. The chapter in his life which 
the past had claimed was closed. He had set his dead 
free. His sister Claire had married a young lawyer 
of Lyons, Julien Aunois, who, discouraged by the 
competition at the over-crowded bar of that city, had 


RETURN TO THE LATIxN QUARTER 157 

accepted an advantageous offer of the Company for 
the Promotion of Mining, founded by ifepervans. 

Gerard, after gaining an engineer’s diploma, had, 
by one of those returns to the past which superficial 
minds deem accidental, very naturally revived the 
old tradition of the weaving Rouvrays. A manufac- 
turer who desired to found a factory in Voiron in- 
vited his assistance and even proposed a partnership, 
for the sake of a name whose ancient and honorable 
reputation had emerged immaculate, and, as it were, 
renovated, from the disaster which had wellnigh 
overwhelmed it. Thus a name becomes by turns a 
burden or a support; and this is the history of all 
inheritances, if the word is accepted in its fullest 
meaning. 

Madame Rouvray had lived to see, without sur- 
prise, the rehabilitation of her family, and had died 
two years before the removal of her elder son to Paris. 
Pascal, watching over her, had recognized with calm- 
ness that peace of death which seemed but a continu- 
ation of the peace of life to which he was himself no 
stranger. 

He had taken an apartment on the Boulevard Saint- 
Germain near the Palais Bourbon. Six years previ- 
ously he had married a young girl of Grenoble, Hen- 
riette Villars, the very one whom his parents had 
formerly desired to see him marry. The Villars and 
Rouvray families had always been in friendly rela- 
tions. It was one of those unions for which childhood 
is a preparation, but which are so often declined by 
the interested parties, whether because of the senti- 
mental indifference engendered by youthful intimacy, 
or in a spirit of opposition awakened by a too obvious 
fitness. Henriette alone had thought of it, and had 
even warded off any other project of marriage. 

The rupture of his engagement had inspired him 


158 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


with a proud contempt of women, which, singularly 
enough, did not put him at a disadvantage with them, 
but rather attracted them. A liaison in which he 
caused his mistress great unhappiness awakened him 
to a sense of his own selfishness, even cruelty, and 
robbed him of his pride. At last he yielded to the 
entreaties of his mother, who, in failing health, longed 
to see him in a home of his own. The long delay 
communicated a sort of disenchantment to the mar- 
riage. It had come too late. An affection too studi- 
ously cultivated shines upon the heart like the sun of 
autumn, which gives no warmth. Henriette had 
doubted herself and the possibility of happiness too 
much not to recoil upon herself. Married at twenty- 
seven, a brunette without sparkle, pretty only to those 
who took the trouble to observe the purity of her fea- 
tures, and especially the expression of eyes as timid 
as if they sought to hide their spiritual beauty, eyes 
always somewhat humid, like the velvet fields which 
long retain the dew, she still preserved beyond her 
thirtieth year her girlish slenderness, her manner as of 
a too grave child which has never played enough, has 
not made enough of its childhood. She lived in her 
husband’s shadow, manifesting neither coquetry nor 
curiosity, approving all his words and actions, — an 
attitude not displeasing to superior men, always more 
or less imperious, — and seemed to enjoy — though 
with an inveterate sadness — a regular, monotonous, 
uneventful mode of life. She was one of those women 
trustworthy by nature, profound of heart, by whom 
homes abide intact. When the question of moving to 
Paris arose she manifested neither desire nor regret 
— at most a shade of fear. She always yielded in 
advance to every decision of Pascal, who seldom con- 
sulted her. She had brought him two sons, Pierre and 
Michel, and the paternal sentiment, like the filial in 


RETURN TO THE LATIN QUARTER 159 

early days, had tempered that severity which is the 
result of an inner discipline too continuously main- 
tained, when the active energies have not accepted or 
received a counter balance of affection. 

His wife’s fortune, the revenue of the Colletiere 
property which had become entirely his by the pur- 
chase of his brother’s and sister’s portions, a share 
in the factory at Voiron, permitted him to wait pa- 
tiently till his reputation and his new appointment in 
the School of Medicine should enable him to build up 
a practice in Paris. In fact he was reaching the goal 
he had first set before himself, at the period of life 
when a man, already long in active work, begins to 
weary of turning always in the same circle, and longs 
for a change. The more perfectly to realize the re- 
venge of time he had reminded his friends, Epervans 
and Chassal, of their promise of long ago, inviting 
them to dine at the Cafe Manette. 

From his distant home he had kept watch of their 
rise in life, not without some envy. Hubert, after 
more than one false start, technical investigations, 
appointments to foreign lands, had recognized his 
true line, which was as a good engineer to promote 
from Paris the business interests of the four quarters 
of the globe. Quite the contrary of the Englishman, 
the modern Frenchman detests risk. Now in the 
case of mines the risk is considerable, but one success- 
ful affair compensates for ten failures. Why tell the 
truth to those who are unable to endure it and are 
satisfied with error provided it is agreeably presented 
Moreover, certainty is so hard to come by in business. 
The best way is to start a good many undertakings, 
to start them all with assurance. He therefore had 
founded a Company for the Promotion of Mining. 
Understanding the times, he had secured political sup- 
port. A former keeper of the seals, willing again to 


160 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

accept such an office, joined him as legal counsel. 
Decorated, opulent, magnificent, he seemed to be con- 
ducting a formidably large business with the utmost 
safety. 

Felix had followed the fortunes of his patron, 
Maitre Herve-Renaud. Private Secretary when the 
latter was a minister, he afterward ran for deputy 
in the prepared district of Tour-du-Pin, as one ex- 
patriated makes from afar the most of ancestral 
associations. Thrice re-elected, he was quietly ap- 
proaching a position of power with that diplomatic 
patience which takes no risks. Specialist in ques- 
tions of law and finance, president of committees, 
reporter of budgets, he excelled in an optimism based 
upon the data of research, by which majorities are 
pleased to be reassured. The extreme persuasiveness 
of his words, the refinement of his manners, a cer- 
tain expression of humanitarian sympathy, had gained 
him a reverential appreciation in those circles in which 
appetites are generally least concealed. 

A year after her rupture with Pascal he had mar- 
ried Laurence Aveniere, whom her godmother’s death 
had at last enriched. Pascal, informed by a diplomatic 
letter, had sent his congratulations, but he had so ar- 
ranged matters as never to meet his former fiancee in 
any of his visits to Paris. She was the beautiful 
Mme. Chassal, often referred to in society news. He 
could meet her now with indifference. The past was 
blotted out. 

Entering the cafe, Pascal selected the same table as 
formerly, on the first floor. That next to it, that of 
the old Parnassian of the hors-d^ceuvres, was taken 
by a group of foreigners. Looking out of the win- 
dow, he smiled on seeing, in the light of a street lamp, 
Felix getting down from his coupe. Years had not 
changed his manner, but the carriage was his own. 


RETURN TO THE LATIN QUARTER 161 

He was in evening dress, always elegantly thin, his 
cheeks slightly hollow, but with an important air 
which gave him all needed weight. His hair and 
beard were too beautifully blond not to have been 
dyed. Spoiled by his oratorical successes, he was 
chiefly interested in producing an effect. 

A slight stiffness had already developed between 
the once- while friends when Hubert came in like a 
whirlwind, stout, flurried, overcoat thrown back, cov- 
ering considerable space with his corpulence and his 
extended arms. The atmosphere was at once thawed 
out by his overflowing animation, his ready cordiality. 
A spell seems to emanate from men of this sort, who 
distribute mirages with or without prospectuses, mer- 
chants of falsehood, who are business men as they are 
poets. 

The restaurant cheer saddened him. He reproached 
Pascal for his choice. 

“ Don’t you remember our wager ? ” 

“We could have commemorated it somewhere else 
just as well.” 

Anywhere else, the same as here, they would have 
forgotten to invite their youth. Felix, who drank only 
mineral waters and ate only broiled meats, contented 
himself with taking minute portions of food upon 
his plate and looking at them suspiciously. Hubert 
swallowed everything grumbling. His face, clean 
shaven like that of an American, grew purple. 
Pascal, who involuntarily saw them with a physician’s 
eyes, diagnosed the dyspepsia of one and the plethora 
of the other, and experienced a certain satisfaction 
in perceiving that the country had been kinder to him. 

“ Well,” declared Hubert between two mouthfuls, 
“ here you are again, a free man like ourselves. I 
should never have believed that you would return.” 

And he set off upon his enterprises and combina^ 


II 


162 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

tions. Felix a few minutes later began about his in- 
fluences, his connections, parliamentary gossip. Both 
were well known in Paris. They had pushed themselves 
forward rapidly enough to reap the benefit by the 
clever method which proposes to profit but not to serve. 
Politics, business, are a different sort of springboard 
from science. Had Pascal indeed become once more 
a free man like them.'^ 

“How shall we kiU the evening.'^” asked Hubert, 
draining his glass of kummel. “ It was a blunder to 
dismiss my automobile. There are none in this quar- 
ter. That ’s unlucky.” Then bethinking himself: 

“ Let’s go to Bullier’s. 1 have n’t set foot there 
since the old days.” 

They went. It was a Thursday. The electric light 
made crudely evident the poverty of the Moorish 
columns of the great hall, the worn floor, which 
caught the dancers’ shoes. A crowd was sadly prome- 
nading in a circle, — women in empire gowns and 
beplumed hats, shop girls hastily bedizened after 
leaving their work, students, shopmen, soldiers. Sud- 
denly the orchestra, brass and strings, burst forth, 
and couples were formed, turning and whirling, until 
the music ceased, animal cries accompanying its 
retreat. 

Perhaps they had never greatly en j oyed themselves 
there. But at forty they felt so old! Hubert alone 
followed with a glance of desire the young girls who 
passed by. 

“ Flee the woman^'* Pascal reminded him. 

“ I have n’t changed, that ’s a fact. There are 
women in my life but not one woman. I wear no 
chains. I no more have a mistress than Felix has a 
child.” 

Felix detested such j okes. 

A fresh-colored frail child of seventeen, in an al- 


RETURN TO THE LATIN QUARTER 163 

mond-green skirt with bretelles^ a white waist and bell 
hat to match her skirt, proud of her new clothes, and 
still prouder of knowing the value of her youth, 
passed by. Their glances converged upon the nape 
of her neck, white against the shadow of her heavy 
black hair. Hubert called to her. She turned back, 
her eyes looking straight before her, prompt to the 
fray as a warrior, and marched upon Hubert, who 
believed himself to be preferred, and offered cham- 
pagne. She had the spirit of the child of Paris, new 
style — that is to say, licensed, for she drew her cer- 
tificate from her pocket. 

I should have gone in for the higher certificate,” 
she explained, “ but I had gone with a gentleman.” 

Her name was Ninette. She seemed to be taking 
a little excursion in life as in a private domain of her 
own. For a little while her prattle amused them. 
Then Hubert, who had become silent, pounced upon 
her as upon a prey. He offered to take her to supper. 
She declined on the score of her dress. He suggested 
the Halles. She consented, and they went away. 

‘‘ He is leading a dangerous life,” remarked Felix 
upon this escapade. 

Pascal, studying his remaining companion, was 
asking himself what was this man’s chain, who gave 
no confidences. In thirteen years he had not seen 
the two companions of his youth so intimately. They 
came back to him all enhaloed with success. Beside 
their apparent wealth, how small a thing seemed the 
tremendous effort of his thirteen years of labor which, 
beyond its private results, had simply placed him in 
a position to resume his once compromised scientific 
career. And yet, simply for having spent one even- 
ing with them, he was beginning to ask himself 
whether his voluntary withdrawal had been as un- 
favorable to him as he had imagined. 


164 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


Felix was no less anxious than he to cut short their 
interview. It was not long before they parted. No 
festivity is more melancholy than that in which the 
guests return without youth to the place where they 
had enjoyed their youth. 


II 


THE VISIT 

Success, like woman, has its caprices and its mys- 
tery. Its favors are hampered by neither justice nor 
morality, and those who have won it in politics, in the 
battlefield, in science, art, even in society, have at 
times confessed their surprise. They had been seek- 
ing or expecting it elsewhere, or thought it had lost 
its way. Now it comes prematurely, now it lags 
tardily. Yet if like love it wears a bandage, it peeps 
underneath, and is almost always able to furnish 
reasonable excuses for its very errors. 

Dr. Rouvray found it in Paris. Did he owe this 
distinction to his brilliant lectures in the chair in 
which he was replacing Professor Amaud.'* Celebrity 
usually comes slowly by way of the Medical Faculty. 
To his writings.? They were too scientific in char- 
acter to reach beyond a very limited public. The 
“ first nighters ” of an opera or a drama, the first 
readers of a romance or a work of history, are able 
at once to proclaim — by virtue of what infallibility? 
— its success or failure. Perhaps the doctor’s vogue 
was in part due to a certain rapidity of judgment 
which passes across society with disconcerting ease. 
Specialist in diseases of the nervous system, he had 
astonished his earlier patients — and there is no class 
of invalids more impressionable or more fickle. Within 
eighteen months they had made him the fashion, with- 
out his so much as suspecting it. 


166 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

His professional integrity counted for nothing in 
the case, although he never practiced that art of con- 
sultation which consists in prolonging a treatment, 
making a gradual case of one that should last but a 
limited time. Nor was it due to his charity to a class 
found in all great cities, among whom nervous com- 
plaints induced by poverty are as serious a pest as 
those which in another class result from luxury and 
social dissipation. 

His scientific researches and discoveries — to wliich, 
indeed, he himself attributed only a relative impor- 
tance — contributed much less to his popularity than 
a certain bluntness of manner with his patients. He 
obstinately advocated a nonnal, well-balanced life, as 
opposed to the artificiality of the time, the cause of 
all those disorders that a death-dealing civilization in- 
troduces into the human organism, especially as op- 
posed to that dread of parenthood which is one of the 
curses of modem times, and which has gone so far 
in modifying the life of women and affecting the 
character and stability of the home. 

A few conversations had sufficed to give him a repu- 
tation for originality. “ You will never guess, my 
dear, the remedy he advised for me.” “ What 
remedy.^” “A child.” “But you have one now.” 
“ So I told him, and he answered : ‘ A woman does n’t 
recover her full health till the third ! ’ ” “ The third ! 
Your doctor is crazy.” “Isn’t he.?^ Naturally, I 
protested. I could never endure such a strain. ‘ Oh,’ 
he replied, ‘ you seem very well able to endure long 
hours in the shops and at exhibitions, not to speak of 
visits and dinners and balls.’ I explained to him that 
that was not the same thing. ‘ You are right,’ he 
said, ‘ it is more wearing, but one must choose.’ ” “ I 
certainly hope you ’ll not go to him again.” “ Well, 
I don’t know, he is so interesting. And he speaks well 


THE VISIT 


167 


— a little severely, but very well. Come and see him.” 
“ Well — perhaps.” 

He took the place of those fault-finding confessors 
whom lovely sinners find so necessary. He scolded, 
he laid down the law, they felt that he was telling 
the truth. They didn’t obey his counsels, but they 
liked to hear them. With his dominating calmness, 
and the moral prescriptions with which he always 
supplemented his physical treatment, he mastered and 
quieted overtaxed nerves, for a few weeks or a few 
days, at least. 

But while he was thus restoring poise to those 
around him, his return to Paris had robbed him of 
his own; before he realized it he foreboded it from 
an inexplicable sense of uneasiness. On the whole, he 
was realizing all his ambitions. Once again he had 
before him the very career to which his youth had 
aspired. A professorship, the Academy of Medicine, 
above all, scientific renown were within his grasp, or 
drawing nearer year by year. He had satisfactorily 
discharged his duties to his family. His household, 
his children, gave him no anxiety. Like many men, 
he might have been happy, he ought to have been 
happy, and yet he was not happy. That disquietude 
which often at about forty years, or even later, takes 
possession of men whose life is too easy, or too much 
in accordance with their own wills, had taken pos- 
session of him, and he could not shake it off. We are 
so made that, though bom for submission, we revolt 
against long-continued discipline, and error spells in- 
dependence to us. The doctor even came to look back 
with regret to his long-sustained struggle to free his 
family and himself from obligation and at the same 
time to keep up the creative activity of his brain. 
He had found a welcome exhilaration in the rude con- 
flict, which he had carried on like an isolated chief 


168 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


who makes war for his own hand. This powerful 
spring of action had now failed him. 

His office hours were crowded. Except in very 
special cases, he permitted no one to come to his 
consulting-room without previous announcement. He 
was therefore astonished one day to see an unan- 
nounced patient come in by a door not leading 
from his waiting-room. He recognized her at once. 
Though it was the end of winter, she wore a long otter 
coat, the warm tones of which gave brilliancy to her 
pallor, and a large black hat with white plumes. Her 
ease of manner, her commanding self-possession, had 
no doubt obtained her entrance. She came toward him 
smiling, imperious. 

“ One moment,” he said, and going to the door, he 
reproved in a low voice the servant by whose fault 
it was that she was there. 

“ Don’t blame him,” she said, at once understand- 
ing his action. ‘‘ I am the culprit. He obeyed me.” 

“ He had my orders,” observed Pascal coldly. 
‘‘What can I do for you, madame.^” 

She fixed his eyes with her own. “You recognize 
me ? ” 

He returned her look with composure. Why should 
he not recognize her, even after fourteen years 
Whatever of youthful freshness she might have lost 
was made good by a more perfect consistency, and by 
an incomparable harmony of dress. Even under her 
fur coat her proportions were revealed as at that 
point when slenderness touches upon plenitude — a 
plenitude suited to her height. Her face retained 
that immaculate and brilliant fairness, transparent as 
a flower petal, which could do without powder, though 
not, perhaps, without some cunningly devised cream. 
Her hair, darkened to a Venetian blond, no longer 
softened her dark eyes, like the golden blond of former 


THE VISIT 


169 


days. She still had the upright grace of a tall flower 
— a flower rare and insolent. Though all her beauty 
was intact, she gave an impression of artificiality. 

He was tempted to reply “ No ! ” How useless 
it would have been ! “ Mme. Chassal,” he said in- 

differently. 

She at once drew near him, condescendingly cross- 
ing the abyss which separated them as by a slight 
foot-bridge. 

“ I have forgotten the past. I am no longer angry 
with you, since I have forgotten. Knowing your repu- 
tation, I have come to consult you.” 

“ I am no longer angry with you! ” This I am 
no longer angry with you was to be the sponge which 
should efface all misunderstandings, all heart-break- 
ings, all sorrows. He did not flinch. 

‘‘ I am listening, madame,” he said. 

She heard no indecision in the icy words. Perhaps 
she had expected them. Perhaps she discerned in 
them the affectation which would hide a persistent 
memory. She had acquired or perfected that art of 
overcoming all conversational difficulties which is a 
necessary accomplishment of a woman of the world. 
She proceeded calmly to describe the nervous troubles 
which she had prepared herself to lay before him, 
accounting for them by the exigencies of Parisian 
life, the ever-increasing obligations growing out of 
her husband’s ambition, eager as he was for power. 
She dreaded nervous prostration, was troubled about 
her heart, and finally asked him to examine it by 
auscultation. 

He had permitted her to describe her case without 
asking a question. Now he said coldly: 

“Very well, madame. Will you lay aside your 
furs ? ” 

She dropped her cloak with a pretty, graceful 
movement which rendered his help needless. 


170 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ Your waist also.” 

“Is it necessary?” she asked hesitatingly, and 
looking at him. 

“ Certainly. And the corset.” 

“ I wear no corset.” 

Her round arms, her pearly shoulders uncovered 
precisely as much as the propriety of the situation 
required, she presented herself for examination. He 
used the stethoscope with minute care, and said 
reassuringly : 

“ The heart-action is perfect.” 

While she replaced her dress he asked a few brief 
questions concerning the disorders of which she had 
spoken, said they were not serious, and wrote a pre- 
scription. He had spoken only the indispensable 
words, with all the physician’s indifference to trifling 
and especially to imaginary ailments, not worth con- 
sideration. Yet (she made no haste to resume her 
heavy furs. She peopled the silence into which he 
plunged. How pleased she was with his return to 
Paris. He had done well to give up provincial life. 
One really existed nowhere but in Paris. And his 
absence had really done him no harm. He was going 
on from one success to another. Often, during the 
past year, she had heard his name; he was much 
spoken of in society. Would it be believed that people 
were absolutely reading his works and trying to 
understand them? Yes indeed, young and pretty 
women, very bright ones, were doing so. Why did 
he never show himself? Why keep himself so per- 
sistently in the background? When he invited friends 
it was only to a restaurant. She herself had been 
compelled to seek him out ; she was so happy in know- 
ing a physician in whom she could have entire con- 
fidence. But she had long been expecting a visit 
from him and Mme. Rouvray. She herself was going 
presently to call on Mme. Rouvray. 


THE VISIT 171 

“ It is not her day,” observed Pascal, who had 
listened without interruption to all the little phrases 
which she had been sending out like arrows — in what 
direction ? 

“ What is her day, then ? ” 

‘‘ Tuesday, I think.” 

“ Then I shall come next Tuesday.” 

At last she rose to resume her cloak. Not a mo- 
tion, not an inflection of Pascal’s voice had given 
evidence of the slightest interest, the slightest trace 
of any past memory. He had even begun to drum 
lightly on the table as if to signify that the inter- 
view was closed. Mme. Chassal appeared not in the 
least embarrassed by the intimation, but went on quite 
naturally recalling their former relations, as if there 
had never been any love between them. Had not time 
indeed done its work of death ? And since their hearts 
beat regularly, since nothing, absolutely nothing, re- 
mained of former ties, she undertook before going 
to lay down the two gold pieces which she had set 
aside for the consultation. At this Pascal drew him- 
self up slightly, but at once recovered himself — not, 
however, before she had observed the movement. 

“Thank you, madame,” he said simply. “But 
your husband is my friend. I cannot accept a fee.” 

“ Yet — ” 

“ Keep it for your poor.” 

A refusal thus accounted for lost all affectation 
of remembrance. He had escaped without the slight- 
est self-betrayal the snare which possibly she had laid 
before the pride of her former fiance. On the other 
hand he might easily suspect her of a small artifice, 
might well suppose that she had invented a pretext 
for seeing him, for bringing him back to her from the 
depths of the long past years, whether from curiosity, 
idleness or any mingled sentiment ; while he himself, 


172 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


on returning to Paris, had carefully avoided her, 
whether from ill will, dislike or fear. Let it be what 
it would, except real indifference. 

Undoubtedly this interview in which he had re- 
mained imperturbable was to her a check. She tried 
to soften it, to give another significance to the visit, 
by turning back on the threshold with the words : 

“ Doctor, is not your brother-in-law, M. Aunois, 
engaged in some way with the Society for the Pro- 
motion of Mining.^ ” 

“Yes, madame, he is connected with the legal de- 
partment. Why.? ” 

“ In that case I ought to warn you. I owe it to 
our — to our former affection, which you, perhaps, 
have forgotten, but which I — on my part have not 
forgotten.” 

He gazed at her in surprise. Why this return to 
the past.? 

“ What is it that you would warn me of, madame .? ” 

She hesitated, as if searching for palliating words, 
when in fact every word carried home. 

“ I know — I know too well the value that you set 
upon honor. It appears that the Society founded by 
M. Epervans is likely to find itself in a dangerous 
position.” 

“ It has a byilliant reputation.” 

“ No, M. Epervans has made some unfortunate 
speculations. And he has a mistress who is running 
him.” 

“ A mistress ! He ! ” 

“ Yes. Every one in Paris knows it. A girl that 
he picked up out of the street. That was sure to 
happen to him. No one can escape his destiny. Then, 
to recoup his losses, he created out of whole cloth a 
number of non-existent mines to help him to carry 
on those which do exist. I can’t explain it all — it 


THE VISIT 173 

is too complicated, and I don’t understand. But I 
am certain of the danger which threatens him.” 

“ How do you know it ? ” 

From my husband.” 

F elix is the friend of Hubert Epervans as well 
as I.” 

‘‘ Not now. I wanted to warn you while there was 
time, for your sake, for the sake of Mme. Aunois, 
who is charming. She has been to see me.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“Yes. Several times. We have talked of you — 
she adores you. She enjoys Paris so much ! We must 
find a less compromising position for M. Aunois.” 

“ Thank you. It is not necessary ; my sister will 
be returning to Dauphiny.” 

Again he warded her off. She did not urge the 
matter, 

“I must go. If you warn your friend, M. Eper- 
vans, do not tell him the source of the bad report 
which I have brought you. It would be better not. 
I ask this.” 

“I promise you, madame.” 

Thus in the moment of departure she had estab- 
lished a sort of complicity between them, and left 
behind her the impression of a service rendered, of 
a clear-sighted and watchful friendship surviving after 
long separation. The consultation scene was already 
far in the background. 

Left alone, Pascal, before pressing the button 
which would authorize the introduction of another 
patient, took a few moments for consideration. What 
was he to think of thus being brought face to face 
with a past which he had believed himself to have 
blotted out by severe self-discipline.^ Mechanically 
he looked out of the window. His consulting-room, 
on the first floor, looked out upon the Boulevard 


174 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


Saint-Germain. The bare branches and twigs of the 
trees left the view of the street open. Evening was 
approaching, but it was still light; the day was one 
of those in early March which still belong to winter, 
though the long pale light of evening is slow to dis- 
appear. Below in the street an automobile was start- 
ing away — no doubt that of Mme. ChassaL He 
followed its departure with his eyes. Then before 
resuming his duties he telephoned to his sister, ask- 
ing her to come at once. An hour later he was in- 
formed that she was awaiting him in Mme. Rouvray’s 
drawing-room and he hastened thither. 

Claire resembled her brother but slightly. She was 
like her mother, whose delicacy of features and whose 
flame of enthusiasm she had inherited. But in her 
this enthusiasm was outside of the mystical domain, 
the mere pleasure of living was enough to inspire it. 
Paris stirred the young woman, so far removed from 
the ways to which she had been born, as the wind stirs 
an isolated tree. In the eight years of her married 
life she had had only one child, — a precocious little 
girl whom she exhibited like a phenomenon. She was 
always spurring on her husband, who, indolent by 
temperament, wanted to take time for everything. 
Julien Aunois, intelligent but not quick, had not suc- 
ceeded at the Lyons bar. He preferred industrial 
investigations, practical operations, machines. He 
was never able to translate into concrete ideas the 
subtle and abstract questions of law. He was one of 
those men who can never by themselves discover what 
career they are made for, although in any other than 
the right one they are ill at ease. He did not enjoy 
the situation which he occupied in the legal depart- 
ment of the Mining Company. It was much more 
congenial to his wife, who had at once fallen in love 
with Paris. Pascal recalled to mind various conver- 


THE VISIT 


175 


sations in the course of which his brother-in-law had 
given signs of some dissatisfaction with the conduct 
of Hubert Epervans’ business. 

“ He is always starting something new. He hnds 
them in engineers’ reports. I don’t know where he 
gets them.” 

Remarks like these accorded too well with Mme. 
Chassal’s warning not to call for examination. More 
than once already Pascal had asked Julien Aunois 
why he had not accepted the offer of Gerard, to 
take him into his weaving mill at Voiron; the post 
would be a modest one, but secure, less of a strain, 
and better suited to his rather moderate means. 
Julien had always replied: 

“ Claire will not leave Paris.” 

Pascal had thought as much. He recognized in her 
that same fever of individuality through which he had 
himself once passed, which demands its aliment of 
daily diversion such as can only be found in Paris. 
He foresaw, too, another crisis which would be the 
consequence of this. Raymond Gardane, who for a 
long time had been held off, had lately reappeared 
in the drawing-room of the Aunois, as if the scruples 
and resistance of Claire, till then upheld by that 
strength of family prestige which when transplanted 
withers branch by branch, was giving way before the 
attraction of more intense emotions. Because of 
this danger which he perhaps exaggerated and of 
which he had no proof, he the more earnestly desired 
his sister’s departure. 

When he entered she was making the serious Mme. 
Rouvray laugh by a whole chaplet of anecdotes. 

“Ah, there you are,” she cried. “You see how 
obedient I am. One word over the telephone and I 
appear. I must admit that your tone over the wire 
was most funereal.” 


176 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

In a few words he informed the two women of the 
damaging reports which were in circulation about 
the Mining Company. 

“ Who told you ? ” asked Claire. 

‘‘ Madame Chassal came to consult me about her 
health.” 

The young woman gurgled into laughter as if she 
knew and was amused by her brother’s former love 
affair. Pascal frowned with displeasure, but she paid 
no attention. 

“ Yes,” she explained, “ that ’s the Chassal version. 
Chassal is jealous of the development of our com- 
pany. Livier is one of the administrators.” 

“ Livier the Deputy ? What of that ? ” 

“ Oh, how little you keep up with things ! Livier 
is your friend Chassal’s rival in the Chamber. They 
are of the same party, but they hate one another, 
because both are sighing for a ministry. And Livier 
will get it.” 

He listened, stupefied. How Paris had changed her 
in three years ! Spontaneous and frank by nature, 
ardent without poise, but generous and enthusiastic, it 
had transformed her into this trifling little person, 
prompt to imagine complicated plots of love or self- 
interest. Henriette, at least, kept her firmer, less 
volatile character. She was listening, but taking no 
part in the conversation. 

“ Well,” concluded Pascal authoritatively, “if there 
were the least outbreak, the least suspicion of scan- 
dal, it would be unfortunate for your husband’s name 
to be mixed up in the matter.” 

“ How can he keep out of it.?^ We have invested 
my dowry in it.” 

“ Your dowry ! But, unlucky child, before you 
came to Paris I advised Julien to invest no money in 
this enterprise. The management of a small fortune 


THE VISIT 


177 


demands the utmost prudence. One does n’t invest 
money where he has already risked his position, his 
career. Your husband knows that well. I shall look 
into this to-morrow. I shall ascertain to-morrow if 
there is anything crooked in Hubert’s business. If 
there is anything crooked in it you must not hesi- 
tate to leave him.” 

“ Oh,” she pouted, in money matters there is 
always something crooked.” 

She pronounced this axiom in the presence of that 
brother who, after his father, had finished paying the 
creditors of the family to the very last sou. It had 
needed only for her to hear a few conversations, 
gather up by chance a few of those witty, de- 
structive and depreciating calumnies which Paris 
peddles around from evening to morning, to give 
her the air of one blase, at the bottom of every- 
thing. 

“ Besides, there is no risk,” she went on. ‘‘ Don’t 
distress yourself. They are going to declare a divi- 
dend of fifteen per cent this year. It ’s a pretty 
figure.” 

“ Too fine. And if I find any reason for anxiety 
your husband must simply resign at once and go.” 

Come, come, don’t play the dynastic head. We 
are old enough children to know how to behave, my 
husband and I. You have n’t enough confidence in 
your friend Epervans. He is a genius in his way. 
He creates companies like a magician.” 

“ Out of nothing, perhaps.” 

“ Ah, nice friends you have chosen ! Chassal, too, 
is a rarely clever man, more secretive, less conquer- 
ing. It will be a fine duel. For in fact they are the 
two combatants. Epervans wanted him to come into 
his business. He refused, and Livier took his place. 
We shall see who is the stronger. As for resigning 


178 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

and going away, how you do talk! For my part, I 
shall not leave Paris.” 

Once he had been forced to leave it. She did not 
so much as remember it, or perhaps she would have 
blamed him, though she herself had profited by it. 
She faced him there, lifting herself on her spurs like 
a little cock, warming herself up to a war of finance 
as if it had been a tournament of chivalry. Pascal, 
already worried, was exasperated by her resistance. 
He must needs return to his patients, and he left his 
sister without accomplishing anything. 

“ Try to make her hear reason,” he said to his wife. 

‘‘ She never listens to me,” replied Henriette, yet 
she said to her sister-in-law: 

‘‘ Why not go to Voiron.^ ” 

“ Oh, you — you detest Paris.” 

“ Did I hinder my husband from coming here when 
he wished to do so ? ” 

“You are easily contented; you really care for 
nothing.” 

“ Do you think so, Claire.^ ” 

And the two sisters gazed at one another, then 
quickly averted their eyes as if they did not see one 
another, as if they found between them an immense 
distance, immeasurable, and hidden by mist. 

When Pascal had dismissed his last patient he sat 
still at his table, not turning on the electric light, 
letting the darkness fill all the comers of the room, 
creep over him and shut him in. He began by facing 
one by one each unfavorable indication of Hubert 
Epervans’ situation. Mme. Chassal would not have 
said what she did say without grave motives. Julien 
Aunois, far from perspicacious, indulgent in his judg- 
ments and in any case blinded by his wife, had never- 
theless for some time past shoTO some evidence of 
doubt. He himself had been struck with certain symp- 


THE VISIT 


179 


toms of breakdown the last few times that he had 
met Hubert. Thin, his cheeks flabby and bagging, 
the president of the Mining Company still carried the 
triumphant and competent expression which inspired 
confidence, security. Nevertheless, a close observer 
might already distinguish that debility which follows 
the abuse of life. That Ninette whom he had found 
at Bullier’s, who paraded her unbounded extrava- 
gance in all public places, was perhaps the rope 
around his neck which would one day strangle him. 
Had he lost his freedom, his luck, at the moment when 
danger threatened 

It irked Pascal thus to find himself again bur- 
dened with obligations and responsibilities when he 
had thought to lay them down on returning to Paris. 
Like himself long ago, Claire had come to that part- 
ing of the ways where one must choose his path, and 
he could not be unconcerned about her choice, though 
it were one which every human being is called to 
make. But how could he intervene, by what right.? 
Having performed the duties of a father or a 
mother, could he claim the authority of one.? The 
young wife’s independence would not endure such an 
assumption. 

This return of disquietude coincided with the re- 
appearance of Laurence. Why had she emerged 
from the oblivion in which he had so faithfully en- 
tombed her? She was generous and she had warned 
him. She had overpassed the silence which he had set 
between them like a sea between two shores; he saw 
her making harbor on his side. What did she want 
of him.? She brought with her and distributed those 
discomforts which in ordinary life are not distin- 
guished from one another, — discontents, doubts, 
loneliness, the emptiness of imperfect joys, incomplete 
happiness. He recalled her image, with her great 


180 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


plumes, her victorious, untouched, inviolate face, so 
pure, so white, resplendent. He saw her half un- 
dressed, — the flexible neck, the opulent shoulders, 
smooth and white as veined marble, so alluring. 
With her all his youth, far distant in the shadows, 
stirred and woke. With her he would not have been 
long in restoring its ruins, one by one. And upon the 
stones which he had spent so many years in building 
up, which were unceasingly needing repairs, he dis- 
tinctly saw the couple, Felix Chassal and his former 
betrothed, insolently sneering. Then a torrent of 
impatience, of jealousy, swept over him, disgust for 
all that he had safeguarded, all he had attained, and 
he discovered himself dissatisfied, unappeased. 

As he had not responded to the first call, Mme. 
Rouvray herself came to his study to seek him. The 
dinner hour was past. In the half light which filtered 
in from the street lamps she saw him sitting before 
his table without a light, motionless. 

“ What were you waiting for here in the dark? ” 

“I? Nothing.” 

The words, uttered in a dry tone, shook her from 
head to foot. She made as if she was satisfied. For 
what was he waiting? After having built up so much 
he was destroying himself. 


Ill 


THE WRESTLERS 

Pascal put on his overcoat, began buttoning his 
white gloves and went to Mme. Rouvray’s room. The 
maid was holding Henriette’s evening mantle ready 
for her to put on. 

“ It is a quarter to ten,” he said. “ Are you 
ready.? ” 

“ As you see.” 

He looked absently at her and said: “You are 
beautiful.” 

She had on a gown of black tulle over a trans- 
parent robe of orange silk, a bunch of yellow roses 
at her breast, a golden band in her hair, as the 
fashion was. The very white skin which some dark- 
haired women have was set out by the somber gown 
which, in its chastened elegance, well suited the too 
serious young face. 

They were about to go when the footman told the 
doctor that a visitor insisted upon seeing him. 

“ No, no,” replied Pascal, “ send him away.” But 
on the card he read the name of Hubert Epervans, 
and changed his mind. 

“ Take him to my study.” 

He excused himself to his wife. “ I shall be gone 
but a moment.” 

Hubert, who was giving signs of the most lively 
impatience, rushed to the door as he opened it, and 
without even a word of greeting asked: 


182 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ You are going to the Chassals’? ” 

‘‘ I was sure of it. I am in time. You will find 
Heraux there, the Finance Minister. I have rendered 
him services, important services. Moiraud, the 
Keeper of the Seals, was invited, but since yesterday 
he has been at death’s door. You knew it? ” 

Pascal remarked with a gesture of indifference that 
he had not a moment to lose. What could he do for 
his friend.? 

“ See here, I am not invited to the Chassals’. It ’s 
a semi-official occasion. I must be seen there. At 
present I am being attacked on all sides.” 

“ I know it.” 

“ Yes, you know it, since you forced your brother- 
in-law to resign notwithstanding the money he has 
placed in our house. You were disloyal to me. You 
were wrong.” 

“ Pardon me, I was not disloyal to you. I asked 
you for certain explanations about the latest mining 
affairs set on foot by your house. You would not or 
could not give them. I gave Julien Aunois counsel, 
and he followed it.” 

“ You have n’t Parisian standards.” 

Possibly. In money matters I must have every- 
thing fair and aboveboard. Every one his own 
ideas.” 

“ Yes, you trip up my heels when I am on the point 
of making a fortune out of the Guatemono mines — 
you, Felix, every one whom my enemies have stirred 
up. Felix dares declare war upon me when Livier, 
the famous Livier, is my administrator.” 

“ I know nothing of personal politics.” 

“ Well, Livier will have the Seals after Moiraud, 
who will be dead to-morrow. If Felix will receive me 
this evening, permit me to be seen at his house chat- 


THE WRESTLERS 


183 


ting with Heraux, I ’ll arrange that Livier shall leave 
that place to him. Livier is in mj hands. Felix does 
not know this and I want you to tell him.” 

Amazed at the strange mission which was urged 
upon him, Pascal looked sharply at his interlocutor. 
Hubert wavered under his scrutiny. In evening dress, 
a flower in his button-hole, his head high, he had tried 
to breast opposition, to propose an alliance, a bar- 
gain. Evidently he was frightened. All the blemishes 
which success had concealed were brought out by the 
apprehension of disgrace. PuflPed features and wasted 
body, flabby flesh flecked with red spots, great 
pockets under his eyes, dissipated and vacuous, he 
was already gone to pieces — a human ruin. The 
doctor’s practical eye foresaw his inevitable break- 
down. Suddenly the unhappy man passed from argu- 
ment to entreaty. 

“ I beg you, my dear fellow, to ask Felix to re- 
ceive me shortly. I shall show myself only an instant. 
But I must be seen at this party, be mentioned in the 
morning papers. My stocks all slumped to-day at 
the Bourse. There was a rumor that I had been ar- 
rested — think of that ! Outrageous ! They have 
sworn to ruin me. I am pursued with red-hot shot be- 
cause of Livier. Chassal is their leader. But I will sac- 
rifice Livier. Chassal shall have his ministry, I swear 
it. He can’t have wholly forsworn our old friendship. 
It will do him no good to sink me, and if I am re- 
ceived to-night by the future Keeper of the Seals 
all my stocks will go up to-morrow. One day will 
suffice to put me into the saddle. A good deal may 
be done in twenty-four hours’ time. I need only time ! 
Chassal can save me, don’t you see? ” 

He panted, short of breath; his voice was op- 
pressed. He was the image of terror. In spite of his 
sympathy Pascal could not reassure him. 


184 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


‘‘Chassal does as he pleases. I have no influence 
over him.” 

Hubert grew more insistent, — played his last card. 

“ His wife has.” 

Pascal vainly sought to interrupt him. The drown- 
ing man catches at the last straw, at such a time he 
breaks conventions and silences like the meshes of a 
net. 

“ She was your fiancee. You cannot have for- 
gotten her, — she is not one to be forgotten, — 
no one knows that better than I.” 

“Than you!” 

“There! I told you so! You don’t like to hear it. 
Your eyes blaze with anger. After ten or fifteen 
years! Don’t be afraid. She only amused herself 
with me as with every man who comes near her. That 
is her revenge for your neglect. She has no more 
forgotten you than you her. She will have pity for 
me, she will! Speak to her of me as soon as you 
arrive. I shall follow you in a few moments — shall 
send in my name. Ask her to admit me ! ” 

Pascal, somewhat disconcerted by this unexpected 
and violent intrusion into a past of which he never 
permitted himself to think, cut short the useless 
interview. 

“Neither of Chassal nor of his wife shall I ask 
anything. Ask me myself for any service which a 
friend can render and I will do it. That is all. I 
warned you as soon as I knew that there was danger 
ahead of you. You would not listen, — you thought 
yourself secure. Now it is too late.” 

Hubert drew himself up. 

“Too late.^ We shall see if the beautiful Laurence 
dares close her door upon me.” 

“ Don’t go there,” urged Pascal. 

“I shall go. Perhaps I know her better than 
you do.” 


THE WRESTLERS 


185 


Hoping and believing that this dark suggestion 
would have its effect, Hubert went out, as he had 
come in, with no polite formula, tortured with fear. 

Pascal hastened to his wife. She gave no sign of 
impatience. 

“We shall be the last there. Let’s take the 
automobile at once.” 

“ It is indeed very late,” said she. “ Shall we 
give it up ? ” 

He had not expected a proposition of the kind. In 
general Mme. Rouvray manifested neither desire for 
society nor aversion to it. He himself, whom his 
youthful experiences had left with a proud reserve, 
found little pleasure in it. Yet he hastily replied in 
an authoritative tone: 

“ No, no, we have accepted.” 

“Our absence will not be noticed,” she urged. 
“ Or you might go alone.” 

“You are all ready — unless you are tired .^” 

“ No.” 

“ Then let us make haste.” 

They went down. In the street Hubert, standing 
up in an open taxicab, was leaning over the driver, 
giving him directions. He must have hesitated as to 
where to go. When he sat down, a much beplumed 
woman was visible, who drew back a little to make 
room for him. Under her paint and fine clothes 
Pascal recognized Ninette from Bullier’s. Mme. 
Rouvray turned her head away. 

“What is the matter, Henriette.^ ” asked her 
husband. 

“ The sight of those women is painful to me.” 

Already affected by the easy-going Parisian stan- 
dards, such a sign of the contempt which respect- 
able persons have ceased to feel seemed to him 
exaggerated. 


186 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


The Chassals occupied a hotel on Parc Monceau 
with windows opening upon a magnificent wooded ex- 
panse. A suite of three drawing-rooms was closed 
by a glass conservatory which seemed like a part of 
the garden. Felix and his wife were receiving their 
guests at the entrance. Pascal seated Mme. Rouvray 
in the first drawing-room, in which a stage had been 
built for the exhibition of a foreign dancer over whom 
Paris was running wild, and went on to the conserva- 
tory, with a sudden desire to remain aloof from the 
company of which just before he had wished to form 
a part. He found his sister there, flirting with Ray- 
mond Gardane. Claire, too impulsive not to show 
embarrassment, and vexed at her own want of self- 
control, manifested an irritation to which he appeared 
indifferent. 

“ My wife is asking for you. Let me take you to 
her.” 

I can go by myself, thank you.” 

“ You will not be able to find her. I ’ll come back 
to you in a moment, Raymond. One has to go into 
society to meet you. We never see you in the School 
nowadays.” 

As Mme. Aunois accompanied her brother through 
the rooms, she detested him. By way of making her- 
self disagreeable she said: 

“ Look at Mme. Chassal. She is nude under her 
gown like Mona Vanna under her mantle. She is 
putting forth all her graces for that old beau Heraux, 
trying to get a ministry for her husband.” 

He made no reply and left her with Mme. Rouvray. 
Every one was crowding in for the spectacle, and he 
retreated to the antechamber. What spectacle in- 
deed would have been more attractive to one whom 
long years of an almost secluded provincial life had 
preseiwed from satiety than the one already dis- 


THE WRESTLERS 


181 


played before him? The atmosphere of pleasure 
seemed to intoxicate him. It was one of those social 
affairs which Paris knows how to make successful 
by a combination of lights, flowers, music, dress. The 
mere mingling of colors soothed the eyes like a ca- 
ress. In sheathlike robes the lines of every woman’s 
body were revealed. White, orange, rose, blue, 
mauve, they were so many living bouquets, mingling 
and separating at the hazard of choice, conversa- 
tion, chance, their relations constantly changing as 
a capricious fancy. Floating scarfs of tulle, gauze, 
lace, dotted with jet or spangled with gold, brought 
out the round outlines of their shoulders, bathed in 
light with the delicate tracery of shadow which sepa- 
rated them. Antique coronets, garlands, ribbons, 
bows, mingling with their tresses seemed naturally to 
perfect their womanly beauty, crowning them with 
the diadem of domination. 

All around him Pascal heard names celebrated in 
history, society, politics, letters, art, the theater, 
business. Chassal’s early-won reputation and his 
chances of attaining to power had secured for him 
those brilliant connections which in the chase after 
success overleap the divisions of party, the boun- 
daries of convictions, ideas, race and family, and 
from treachery to treachery assemble on the so-called 
neutral ground of society all that thirst for pleasure, 
all that eagerness to enjoy, which is the hall mark of 
present-day society. An ambitious woman does not 
marry an idler, — that would be to lose too many 
opportunities. To her it is a necessity that her hus- 
band should be a man of importance. She would 
make him such if he were not. To be the husband of 
Laurence was to be assured of a career of influence 
and triumph. 

He saw her speaking to his wife, who, already 


188 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


deserted by Claire, was sitting alone, indifferent and 
almost dull in this scene of parade and show, though 
her timid and modest grace, a new thing in Paris, al- 
most marked her out for attention. But Laurence 
did not pause long with her, whether she felt re- 
pelled by a deceptive coldness, or whether her duties 
as hostess called her away. She passed before 
him. 

“ You avoid me.^ ” She was already gone. Wher- 
ever she passed people made way for her, turned and 
looked after her. Her sheath gown of pale blue 
crepe de chine concealed not a line of her form. 
The dull white of the pearls around her neck set off 
the dazzling fairness of her skin, uniform in tint 
from throat to brow. Pascal’s fixed gaze surveyed 
her from head to foot. Soon another image took her 
place, one visible to him alone — that of a young girl 
leaning on the balustrade of a balcony, hanging over 
the city as over a sea, while her fresh lips murmured: 

Freely and for always, m the face of Paris, 
which is looking at us.** 

She had then made allusion to Paris ; now she had 
drawn it to her, was adulated, admired by it as an 
idol might be. She had preferred this multiple adora- 
tion, the plastic and palpable triumph which it rep- 
resented, to the self-immolating sweetness of love. 

He knew now that his fortunate rival was not 
Chassal, but this crowd. 

Near him, two “ black coats ” were exchanging 
low-voiced remarks, all unconscious of his presence. 

‘‘ You are sure? ” 

“ Yes, Moiraud is dead. They pretend not to 
know it here. It would spoil the evening.” 

« Why? ” 

“ Because Heraux, the minister, would be obliged 
to leave.” 


THE WRESTLERS 


189 


Do you think that the Seals will go from Moiraud 
to Chassal? ” 

“ Certainly. See him strut and preen his feathers.” 

“And what of Livier? ” 

“ Oh, Livier is compromised with Epervans’ 
affairs.” 

“ But this Epervans is Chassal’s friend.” 

“ Chassal has shipped him. He is to be arrested. 
He may already be under lock and key. It doesn’t 
do to thwart Chassal; he is merciless.” 

“ How young his wife looks ! ” 

“ She is eternal, — the new Madame Recamier.” 

“ As bewitching and as platonic as the other ? ” 

“ So they say. The passions which *she inspires 
amuse her. Yet Heraux — ” 

“ That worn-out, gouty Heraux ! ” 

“ He controls the ministry. Presently, when they 
go to the buffet, you ’ll see her on his arm.” 

“Then I ’U stay.” 

Murmurs of “ Hush ! ” brought the conversation 
to a close. The confused sounds which had been 
going up from all the rooms fell back like dust, and 
with the first measures of Mendelssohn’s Spring Song 
the foreign dancer appeared upon the stage. Tall, 
slender, supple, in a short tunic, with bare arms 
and legs, she seemed at first to hesitate, like a doe 
which on the edge of a forest listens to learn the 
direction of the wind. 

Then with a spring she gained the center of the 
stage, broadening the narrow space, transforming 
it into a forest, all her movements blending with the 
music by the mysterious bonds of rhythm, picturing 
in a luminous and moving fresco all that light-hearted 
joy which thrills through plants and creatures at the 
rebirth of nature. The freshness of the morning when 
the dawn is mirrored in every drop of dew breathed 


190 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


over the assembled men and women. Pascal, moved 
to the depths, heard the songs of Colletiere, the calls 
of the mowers starting for the fields at daybreak; 
heard, as in a vast solitude, his mother’s voice, saying 
with that serenity with which her faith, even in pri- 
vation, made her beautiful, “ I have never opened 
my window upon the outer world without thanking 
God.” 

While they were applauding he studied the tense 
faces around him; conversations might indeed have 
subsided like dust, but not one of these immobile masks 
had lost its expression of sensuality, desire, anxiety, 
not one had gained repose. On every one he could 
read struggle, violence, excess or perplexity, con- 
gealed and fixed like the waves of a frozen sea. By 
turns his anxious and disquieted gaze rested upon 
Claire’s excited face, given up not only to the joy 
of the hour, but to the imagination of a free love; 
upon that of his wife, where to his surprise he found 
not weariness, but a pained, distressful sorrow ; upon 
Laurence at last, Laurence, who, after the strain of 
receiving her guests, was pulling herself together, 
her eyes half closed under their heavy lids, her nose 
rigid, all her features as if life had been suspended — 
the sole and unexpected vision of that incompre- 
hensible peace which he was seeking. What was she 
thinking of It was not possible that with this death- 
like calm — her brilliant pallor alone forbidding the 
thought of death — she was not a thousand miles 
removed from all ambition, all intrigue for power. 

Suddenly she rose from her place near the door 
opening upon the gallery, where she was free to move 
about as she pleased. In spite of himself he thought 
of those wild beasts which seem to be asleep in their 
cage until without apparent transition they are 
standing up. He had barely time to distinguish 


THE WRESTLERS 191 

Hubert Epervans, who had forced his way in, and 
whom the two attendants were noiselessly showing to 
the door, while Madame Chassal with her finger 
pointed him out, as a vestal her victim. Then she 
had been watching while he thought her far away on 
the wings of thought, of the past, perhaps of love. 
It was probable that no one but himself had observed 
the swift event. In a few seconds all was as it had 
been before. 

An entr^acte gave the opportunity for the inter- 
mingling of groups. Pascal, who had begun to be 
interested in watching the public, now disillusioned, 
perceived, beneath the thousand external graces, the 
thousand blemishes which a physician experienced in 
diagnosis easily distinguishes. That brilliant man 
around whom a circle was gathering, who was telling 
anecdotes with an abundant fiow of words, his cheeks 
flushed, his eyes alight with triumph, he recognized 
as plethoric, threatened with congestion; without 
question his pulse would show too high an arterial 
tension. That emaciated woman who was listening 
to him, her high cheek bones of a mottled red — every 
characteristic witnessing to eager delight in life, — 
tuberculosis was lying in wait for her. That young 
girl who was drinking in the whispered words of one 
at her side, with an expression so varying that her 
wax-like countenance was now animated and now dull, 
her features lighting up, then fixed without reason, 
would one day be the victim of nerves. Intemperate, 
morphine fiends, neurasthenic, — he classed them all 
with hostile joy. And all these unfit ones were in a 
state of war, fighting to please, to love, to live. They 
were fighting their rivals with all their weapons of 
powders, pastes, dyes. With voluptuous faces and 
the jaws of a beast of prey they were offering 
battle to all comers. It was the hand-to-hand con- 


19ie THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


flict of society, in which at first he had fancied that 
he saw only harmony. Especially was this fierce, 
pitiless, desperate warfare waged against the enemy 
which none has ever conquered — time. In a society 
from which moral authority is excluded, age can be 
only an affront. No exterior discipline gives that 
last spiritual charm which prepares for the hour of 
retreat. Therefore there are no aged women now, 
nor old men ; shoulders are bared to the last, as the 
color of the hair remains unchanged, and thus they 
fancy that they appear to be still young. So conclud- 
ing his analysis, Pascal penetrated the mystery of a 
solidarity in which are blended so many opposing 
appetites, hatreds and desires — a series of brilliant 
moments between a past and a future equally banished 
from thought. 

The dancer was interpreting one of Tschaikow- 
sky’s romances. Autumn Song. It was the golden 
hour when one must enjoy, for death is at hand. 
Why did he recall the laborers at Colletiere, on a 
bench before their house, laughing in the sunset, as 
they ate their warm soup from one pot.^^ 

When it was over, Laurence glided toward him as 
a noble ship slides over the sea. 

“ Will you give me your arm,” she asked, ‘‘ and 
take me to the buffet 

There was no escape. He felt all eyes converging 
upon them as he passed through the rooms with her. 
The old pride took possession of him. This festivity, 
which but a moment before he was disparaging, was 
in fact a truce to every struggle. Laurence was 
transferring to him all the glory of the homage paid 
to herself. For the second time she was offering him 
all that she had long ago urged him to seek, — suc- 
cess, renown, love. Should he be a second time so 
stupid as to refuse? 


THE WRESTLERS 


193 


Meanwhile Felix Chassal had taken English leave 
in company with the minister Heraux. The succes- 
sion to Moiraud had been opened, and in politics — 
otherwise than in law — the quick do not wait upon 
the dead. 

As the Rouvrays were entering their automobile, a 
man who had been watching at the door sprang 
toward them. Henriette shrank back, and Pascal 
stepped before her. 

“ You know,” said Hubert, “ they turned me out.” 

Again Pascal saw Laurence’s gesture, but he simply 
replied as he helped his wife into the automobile: 

“ I warned you.” 

All aglow with the honors of the evening, he felt 
only repulsion, disgust, for the ruined and broken 
man who thus appealed to him. He entered the ma- 
chine and closed the door. 

“ You, too ! ” exclaimed Hubert. 

When fortune smiled upon him, he had generously 
taken Julien Aunois under his protection. Pascal 
was ashamed of his act of repudiation, and turning to 
his wife, “ Do you permit.? ” he asked. 

She understood his question, and divining some 
misfortune assented. He called to his old friend: 

“ Come with us. There is room.” 

But he only offered him the back seat facing them. 
The machine was getting under motion when a news- 
vender offered the last edition of an evening paper 
with the startling headlines: Death of Moiraud the 
Keeper of the Seals. Arrest of Epervans. Pascal 
pushed him roughly away, and ordered the driver, 
“Go!” 

Not a word was exchanged during the drive. The 
doctor led Hubert to his study, and at once re- 
turned to his wife to consult as to the measures to 
be taken. 


194 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

“ He is threatened with arrest,” he explained. 
“ He cannot go to his own house. Could we put him 
up ? ” 

“ Of course,” she quietly replied. 

He was surprised, almost vexed, at an acquiescence 
which he had not anticipated. He had counted upon 
objections, had formulated them in his own mind. 
Would it not be dangerous, compromising, would it 
not be best to keep out of all this shady business? 
Henriette’s charity left all the burden of responsibil- 
ity upon him, cut short any reasonable arrangement. 

A servant had waited up for them, and he was or- 
dered to make a room ready. 

Returning to Epervans, Pascal found him utterly 
gone to pieces. 

“You won’t send me away?” he stammered. 
“ You ’ll let me spend the night in this arm-chair? ” 

Pascal was moved to pity. 

“ In fact it is too late,” he said. “ You are to 
spend the night here.” 

“ That ’s the thing. To-morrow I ’ll arrange my 
affairs, my defense. After that I ’ll return home. If 
they must arrest me, they will. But not to-night, not 
to-night. Ah, the game has been well played. Livier, 
administrator of my company, is compromised. It 
was to compromise him that they announced my ar- 
rest to-night at the same time with Moiraud’s death. 
Our friend Felix is clever, he has won, he will have 
his ministry. Perhaps he will stop there.” 

“ Don’t trust too much to that. But about those 
mines; do they exist or not? ” 

The man brought in wine and biscuits. Hubert 
ate and drank voraciously. Confidence returned to 
him. 

“ Exist ? Of course they exist. I have reports 
that prove it. And besides, what difference does that 


THE WRESTLERS 


195 


make? Is that any affair of the stockholders? They 
don’t say that the dividends I pay them don’t exist.” 

“ You may not be able to keep on paying them.” 

“ Yes, out of other affairs.” 

“ And these? ” 

“ Out of still others.” 

“ The method has its limits.” 

“ Not more than public credulity.” 

Changing his tone, he fell into a lachrymose state 
in which Pascal recognized the wasting of his strength 
and the ravages of fear. 

‘‘ I shall never forget your hospitality. But don’t 
be afraid. I shall never reveal it to any one. I 
know how to keep secrets.” 

“ I am not asking you to do so.” 

“ Yes, yes, you shall see.” 

And as if to recompense his host, and in the in- 
stinctive desire to be agreeable, he began to talk of 
Laurence, of the beauty of that Laurence who had 
driven him away. Pascal listened with secret pleas- 
ure. During this one evening he had been a witness 
of the exaltation and the downfall of the two friends 
of his youth. But as for himself, he did not yet 
perceive whether he was victor or vanquished. His 
brain was all a-whirl with the thought of Laurence. 


IV 


THE PRISONERS 

The dining-room of the Rouvrays, finished in light 
wood, opened by a large bay window upon a garden, 
the trees of which were not near enough to interrupt 
seriously the rays of the sun. Though it was the 
beginning of June and already warm, the awning had 
not been lowered and the sun entered freely. Break- 
fast had gone off ill. The two little boys, Pierre and 
Michel, had had all the trouble in the world to sit 
still, and had been excessively noisy, taking advan- 
tage of the silence of their parents, who suddenly 
checked them, coming out of their clouds. After the 
children had gone Pascal impatiently laid the re- 
sponsibility of their bad conduct at his wife’s door. 

“ You ought to bring them up better.” 

He knew that the reproach was unjust, but dis- 
turbed in mind he felt the need of tormenting some 
one, and who would have permitted it so well as his 
wife? Henriette, absorbed, made no answer. He 
looked attentively at her before going on with re- 
proaches which he was regretting in advance, until 
finally he observed that she looked haggard, with 
circles around her eyes and an expression of sadness 
and lassitude. 

‘‘Are you tired?” 

Surprised at the gentler tone of the question, she 
replied : 


THE PRISONERS 


19T 


I ? — there is nothing the matter with me.” 

He knew, from having used them, the words which 
conceal the ill more surely than silence itself, and, 
like a good physician, he suggested a change of air. 

“ See here, you ought to take the children to Col- 
letiere. We are likely to have a hot June. Down by 
the lakeside the air is always cool. Things are peace- 
ful there — you will be able to rest. Would you like 
to go.^ ” 

At this invitation she raised her eyes to his face — 
timid eyes, and filled with tears. Uncomprehending, 
he went on: 

“ The Aunois will go with you. They are going 
to settle in Voiron. This long time Gerard has been 
offering Julien a position in his silk-mill.” 

“ The Aunois will not leave Paris,” objected 
Henriette. 

‘‘ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Claire does not wish to go.” 

‘‘ She must go, whether or no. Her husband is 
without a position.” 

“ She has begged your friend Mme. Chassal to find 
one for him. Now that M. Chassal is a minister it 
will be easy.” 

Pascal chafed at the information, as if it were 
directed against himself. 

“No, no, she absolutely must go. I desire it and 
I shall insist.” 

He asserted his authority as if it were a matter 
of right, as if he had the power of penalty, returning 
to his first plan the more insistently because of the 
allusion to the Chassals. 

“ Yes, it is best for you to go to Colletiere at once. 
I will join you at the end of July. Paris wears upon 
you. The country will do you good.” 

Henriette, usually so passive, resisted. 


198 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ I do not wish to go.” 

“ And I wish you to go for your health.” 

“ You wish it.f^ You require it.?^ ” 

“ I require nothing. You know that you are free.” 

He could not but see the tears that fell from poor 
Henriette’s frightened eyes. Not being able to force 
them back, she rose and fled without a word. What 
was the meaning of this emotion over so simple a 
counsel offered in her interest.? Was it nervousness, 
exaggerated sensibility, grief unknown to him.? He 
thought of following her — going after her ; he felt 
himself unjust; he discovered in her a depth of af- 
fection which moved him to pity, which drew him to 
her even while he was harsh to her; but his own 
temper was in an unhappy state, and his professional 
obligations claimed him at once. The flrst duty was 
to repair to the prison of La Sante, where Hubert 
Epervans, detained as a matter of precaution, was 
calling him, begging for his care. 

After the Boulevard de Montparnasse, whence he 
mechanically lifted his eyes to his former balcony, his 
automobile followed the Boulevard de Port Royal and 
entered the rue de la Sante, with its row of hospitals 
on both sides. He stopped before Broca, recalling 
to mind that Raymond Gardane was an interne there. 
Gardane was absent, however, and from the embar- 
rassed answers to his questions he gathered that for 
some weeks past the young man had been very irregu- 
lar in his attendance and that people were beginning 
to observe it and complain. He put this information 
together with Claire’s determination to remain in 
Paris, and notwithstanding his confidence in his sis- 
ter’s integrity and good principles, he was alarmed. 

He arrived at last before the massive walls of the 
prison, whose portal bears the bitterly ironical device 
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. His pass authorized 


THE PRISONERS 


199 

him to visit a prisoner for consultation either in his 
cell or in the infirmary. Passing through a court 
enlivened by a tapestry of ivy which covers the entire 
wall of the building, hardly leaving room for the win- 
dows, he was introduced into the wing reserved for 
prisoners. Besides the guard another visitor was in 
the parlor. 

“ My father,” explained a voice. 

He had some difficulty in discerning Hubert behind 
the double grating which separated him from the 
public. Not the downcast, discountenanced and dis- 
concerted Hubert whom he had pictured to himself 
in advance, but a Hubert who in the shadow of his 
rampart was prancing about gesticulating, appar- 
ently the prey of some extraordinary excitement. He 
observed him narrowly and was not reassured. The 
accused was laying himself out to overawe, subjugate, 
reduce to silence the little business agent of Bourgoin, 
the former schoolmaster, all awake to eloquence, who 
had arrived from the depths of his province on learn- 
ing the accident which had overtaken his boy, quite 
unable to understand how such an adventure could 
occur to a man as high in the social scale as he. 

“ They ’ll get him out of it,” said the old man to 
Pascal by way of reassuring himself, while the pris- 
oner launched into a strain of invective. “ You un- 
derstand; Chassal the minister is his friend.” 

“ I am not informed in matters of justice,” replied 
Pascal, wishing to avoid discussion. 

“Oh, justice! When one has a minister up his 
sleeve ! ” 

The good man shared that rural scepticism which, 
for having too often been a victim of differences of 
weights and measures, has no faith in the normal 
functioning of institutions, and believes only in in- 
terventions and special privileges. In its proportion, 


200 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


his petty business resembled that of his son — with 
similar mysteries of business dealings. But with 
great prudence he had early secured a place as elec- 
toral agent, — a place of which he had had occasion 
to appreciate the advantages. 

“ You see,” he went on confidentially, “ Hubert has 
not gone deep enough into politics. He thinks to 
teach his father and he has not the a h c oi the call- 
ing. With politics one takes no risks.” 

Encouraged by Hubert’s discourses, he was pin- 
ning his faith to comforting maxims, forgetting for 
the moment the superstitious fear of the penal code 
felt by all country folk, and which had completely 
upset him on reading the papers at home. 

His son, having regained breath, went off again on 
his financial projects, making much of the unknown 
mine of Guatemono, the existence of which it was 
vain to deny, and going on to discover others, even 
more rich in minerals, in that South America so fer- 
tile in riches of all sorts. He elaborated plans for 
companies in which he was to play the lion’s part, his 
empty hands making the gesture of raking in millions 
from every corner of France, poured from woolen 
stockings as well as from full purses. 

“ Oh, oh ! ” the enchanted old schoolmaster would 
exclaim now and again, ready in his paternal quality 
to claim a percentage on all this wealth, plunged in 
admiration of his son’s facility for building up for- 
tunes when he himself had been straining every nerve 
through a whole long life to extract sou by sou some 
small amount from the tightly buttoned pockets of 
the people of Bourgoin and its neighborhood. 

The two guards on either side of the grating 
pricked up their ears and opened eyes and mouth 
wide, the better to drink in this flow of words, feeling 
in their pockets to find their little savings and turn 


THE PRISONERS 


SOI 

them over without loss of time to the prisoner, who 
would invest them in his enterprises. For the first 
comers would be the best served and it was important 
not to lose a moment. Pascal, drawing nearer, ac- 
customing himself to the darkness, quietly observed ^ 
the orator, evidently the victim of auto-suggestion. 

It was a sight at once tragic and absurd, this ac- 
cused man whose gigantic frauds were about to be 
brought to judgment, and who, imprisoned, bolted in, 
watched, still went on behind his bars with irresist- 
ible animation, devising new affairs on the model of 
the old, but more vast, more daring, piling them to 
dizzy heights without a glance at the quicksand on 
which their foundations were trembling. Even he 
himself, caught by the contagion, found himself 
dreaming of impossible gains. He pulled himself 
together and checked Hubert, who was going on at 
full speed. 

“ See here, calm yourself, calm yourself.” For he 
recognized the symptoms of that megalomania, that 
delirium of vanity, which precedes general paresis. 

The father Epervans, who' had learned to read 
physiognomies by his experiences in the markets, rec- 
ognized perfectly that Pascal was not the dupe of all 
these brilliant promises. Wishing to show that he 
also kept a clear mind, he broke in with: 

“ All the same, all the same, it might perhaps be 
better worth while to live quietly in the country — 
one escapes many annoyances.” 

“ Surely,” approved the doctor. 

“ Perhaps you ’re right,” conceded Hubert. ‘‘ One 
may make a very good thing of agricultural products, 
take them all in all. But one must go into it on 
a large scale, — cattle breeding, for example, with 
three or four thousand bulls.” 

He was off again. The old man interrupted him. 


20£ THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ No, no, nothing but a cow and a pig.” 

“ You are a sensible man, you are,” said Pascal. 

When the former schoolmaster had learned from 
his son the name of this other visitor, — this cold 
gentleman, so perfectly master of himself, somewhat 
disturbingly so, indeed, — he laid himself out in com- 
pliments and formulas of respect. He had been 
slightly acquainted with Pascal’s grandfather, — him 
who had so gayly and completely ruined himself, — 
and his father, who when in debt still held up his 
head so bravely. Yes, indeed. 

The Rouvrays enjoyed public esteem throughout 
all Dauphiny — only think, they had paid all the 
debts ! And now young Gerard was in a way to re- 
establish the important weaving industry which had 
once brought in so many crowns ! The old man crept 
close to the doctor, rubbed up against him, implored 
his assistance, as a hanger-on recommends himself to 
his patron. 

“ You will save him, will you not, doctor? ” 

“ I can do nothing in the matter.” 

“ Oh, you can do anything you please.” 

When his son kept silence, the old man’s fear re- 
turned. His thoughts recurred confusedly to local 
influences such as he knew in their own country. 
“ The old woman is down there,” he concluded more 
gently. 

Humiliated by such vacillations, indignant at the 
fears on his account felt by a father whom he had 
always more or less despised, or perhaps, touched 
by the last words, Hubert exclaimed: “Now leave 
us ! I have something to say to the doctor.” 

“ In the infirmary,” said Pascal, “ I want to ex- 
amine your heart.” 

In the infirmary, during the consultation, the 
prisoner suddenly fell into a state of distress, from 


THE PRISONERS 


which, however, his determined optimism or a mental 
aberration promptly restored him. 

I am all right, am I not.? I am all right,” he 
continually repeated during the examination, as if 
he realized that something was amiss. 

“Yes, but you need rest.” 

“ Precisely — that is why I am here. I have the 
long nights for sleep, and several hours during the 
day sometimes. It is wonderful how I am improving. 
See, I am gaining in weight.” 

“ Your food is wholesome.” 

“ I have it brought from LoyoPs. My employes 
look after that. For, you know, my business is going 
on as usual. Not one of my companies has been 
declared bankrupt. The deputy Livier, who belongs 
to my administrative council, is looking out sharply 
for it. And my stockholders, faithful to me, are clam- 
oring for my return. They are getting their bou- 
quets ready against my release from prison. My 
automobile will be covered with flags.” 

The thought of his approaching apotheosis worked 
him into a fever of excitement: 

“For I must get out of this,” he went on. “ I 
must at any price. I have projects — you just heard 
them — which will enrich my creditors. By unhoped- 
for good luck one of my enterprises is just now carry- 
ing all the others. With a nonsuit I shall save them 
all. Besides, what have I done that every financier 
does not do ? They found my bank account good — 
what more have they to say.? Everything is in that. 
Or else, let them give me liberty on bail. My lawyer 
has asked it — it was refused, but I shall ask again, 
I shall keep on asking until I get it.” 

Then, craftily begging for a farther auscultation, 
he whispered to Pascal as he bent over him: 

“ Get me out on bail, or a nonsuit.” 


204 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

Pascal raised his head. “ What can I do in the 
matter.? ” 

“ Go to Felix.” 

“ Your downfall is precisely what he needs.” 

“ Not now.” 

Lowering his voice, he briefly explained the plan 
he had devised. 

“ Go and see Laurence. She is yours. She has 
never consented to give herself to any other. I know 
that she is yours. You have only to take her. She 
will refuse you nothing. Go and see Laurence.” 

“ Silence ! ” exclaimed Pascal, who had vainly tried 
to check him. 

Hubert sneered like one in the secret; then, as 
Pascal was leaving the room, his features suddenly 
took on an expression of terror, and he murmured a 
last word — almost that of his father : 

“ There is mamma, at any rate.” 

Whether Pascal was influenced by this last appeal, 
by the daring allusion to Mme. Chassal, or by the 
ominous revelations of the medical examination which 
he had concealed from Hubert, on coming out from 
La Sante he gave the order: 

“Place Vendome, Ministry of Justice.” 

Yet no one could have revolted more than he 
from asking a favor of a politician; no one could 
feel more embarrassment, more aversion to being 
mixed up in any way whatever with matters of finance, 
— matters in which his standard of strict rectitude 
was the outgrowth of his own sacrifices to a sense of 
honor which can be understood only by those who 
have cherished it, as a religion can only be truly 
understood from within, never from without. In the 
Ministry he had to run the gauntlet of a whole series 
of doorkeepers, all the more consequential as the lack 
of discipline had complicated the rules of precedence. 


THE PRISONERS 


^05 


Rej)eated waitings are trying to busy people. A 
deputy with a special pass brought him to the end 
of his patience, and he went back to his car, not, 
however, to return home for office hours. Knowing 
that the Chassals had not yet taken possession of the 
official residence, he gave the order for Parc Monceau. 
Perhaps he would meet Laurence, and his heart beat 
at the thought as if he had been fifteen years younger. 
Hubert’s daring words had set aj ar for him the closed 
door of remembrance, and however determinedly he 
might turn away from it, his mind was soon filled 
with thoughts of the past, as a pebble cast into a 
lake sets in motion ever- widening circles, that reach 
the shores at last. 

Mme. Chassal would receive him. He was intro- 
duced into a small sitting-room full of flowers and 
growing plants, opening upon the park as upon a 
garden. She came in shortly, all in white, her im- 
maculate complexion appearing lustrous against the 
rival whiteness of her dress. He had not seen her 
since the evening when she had taken his arm with 
the gesture of a conqueror. How many times had 
he lived over the scene with dangerous exactness ! A 
new picture, one wearing a crown, had taken the place 
of the young girl on the balcony who had reigned over 
his youth, or rather was blended, confused with hers. 

He stated Hubert’s request, reserving his own 
opinion as to the accusation, simply appealing to the 
friendship of Felix and also to has sympathy; for 
he indulged in no illusion as to the malady which 
threatened Hubert, and which sooner or later — prob- 
ably soon — would render him helpless if it did not 
carry him off. Without naming the malady he in- 
dicated its gravity. At the least, it was imperative 
that the patient should be transferred to the prison 
of Fresnes, at Sainte Croix de Berny. 


^06 THE PARTING OP" THE WAYS 


She listened, her hands resting on the arms of her 
easy-chair, her eyes half closed, and he suddenly re- 
called the concentrated and intent attitude which she 
had assumed before ordering Hubert to be thrown 
from the door. Was she gathering herself up for a 
refusal? Why had he come to plead this cause? 

“ Then he is lost.” she said. 

“ I fear so.” 

“ At least he will have lived.” 

“ Or rather, he has misused life.” 

‘‘ One must misuse if one would feel. Well-ordered 
existences know nothing of the power of sensations. 
He — he has drained them to the last drop.” 

“ To the dregs.” 

“ Oh, there are always dregs at the bottom of 
every passion, but is it not worth while to subordinate 
everything to it? ” 

She dared speak thus, to him ! She who had once 
refused to make any sacrifice whatever for love; she 
who had preferred before it her ambitions, tastes, 
pleasures, successes, the fashion, Paris ; she who day 
after day — and with what art and self-discipline ! — 
had worked up to social triumph, the triumph of 
which he had been a witness in her house — she to 
talk to him of subordinating all things to passion! 

“ That Ninette,” she went on, “ it was she, was it 
not, who led him on to ruin, to theft, to crime? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ Crime is a convincing proof of love.” 

He was paying no attention to these remarks, so 
trite on the lips of a woman of the present day ; he 
was looking at her, and in her peaceful face he es- 
pecially noticed the red lips — painted, perhaps — 
the lips which he remembered. And suddenly, with 
no premonition that he was about to speak, he said: 

“ Laurence ! ” 


THE PRISONERS 


m 

She did not stir. A slight fluttering of her long 
eyelashes, unobserved by him, alone showed that she 
was surprised and inwardly shaken. 

“ At last,” she murmured softly, “ you remember 
me.” 

He, standing erect before her, moved toward her, 
trembling like a leaf. He went on: 

“ Laurence, answer me ! When, long ago, the ques- 
tion arose — ” 

“ Not so very long ago — ” 

“ Of subordinating your life to love, to our love, 
why did you refuse ” 

She lifted her dark eyes to his, called up to them 
all their fire, all their power, and replied: 

‘‘ Do you know whether I have not been sorry ? ” 

Again he said, as if the beating of his heart might 
cease at the name: 

‘‘ Laurence ! ” 

As by magic those few words had carried them 
back — beyond the wasted years. She still had all 
her youth, though with a more finished grace. He 
was at the pinnacle of life, at the age when the power 
of feeling is at its fullest. Could they alone of all 
mortals live again the years which come to no one 
twice In a lower tone she replied: 

“ You, too, Pascal, you sacrificed me.” 

“ If you had loved me you would have gone with 
me, no matter where.” 

“ If you had loved me you would not have gone.” 

“ It was death itself to leave you.” 

“ And to me — something worse than death.” 

Without explaining further she added: 

“ No, no, Pascal, never say that I did not love 
you. The other evening here, after the dances, I 
saw you, I went to you, I chose you, I could not do 
otherwise.” 


208 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


With an effort to shake off the spell which en- 
thralled him he said: 

‘‘ Heraux the minister had gone.” 

“ I don’t know. I could not do otherwise.” 

She seemed to hold his thought to hers, and he 
owned himself conquered. 

“ That evening, Laurence, you came to your per- 
fection. In your face, always so luminous, I could 
see that you had reached your goal.” 

« My goal? ” 

“ Yes, your goal of domination. All eyes, all de- 
sires, were fixed upon you.” 

That is not enough.” 

“ Like a queen you planted your foot upon all 
the desires, aspirations, reputations of Paris, and 
they submitted themselves to your conquering 
march.” 

That is not enough.” 

Was it not this which long ago you worked for, 
when from the balcony of my student rooms — do 
you remember? — you looke^ down upon Paris, — 
Paris at your feet? ” 

“ No, it was not this. Why do you underrate me, 
my friend? You have succeeded better than I in at- 
taining your perfection, as you say. In consenting 
to maintain a name intact, in cementing again the 
broken links of your race, you have contributed to 
its permanence. I also would have wished, but in 
another way, to be associated with things that en- 
dure, with an imperishable work of art, with an inven- 
tion whose law or whose beneficence would last long, 
— forever — or at least, with a page of history.” 

“ You required much.” 

‘‘ Yes, everything which might prolong our life, 
our youth.” 

Without moving a muscle she seemed to blaze with 


THE PRISONERS 


W9 


enthusiasm. In sudden jealousy, searching for the 
part of Felix Chassal in all this, he asked: 

“ Your husband’s reputation, his high position, are 
not enough, do not suffice? ” 

“ That is politics — it is not history.” 

“ Politics is history in the making — or the un- 
making.” 

“ ‘ Or the unmaking.’ You see that you yourself 
do not believe in it. No, that evening which you 
recall, I was not yet satisfied.” 

“ It is not easy to satisfy you, Laurence.” 

She lowered her eyes under their long lashes as 
she went on: 

“ I never thought that you would come back some 
day. I had not measured all your powers. When 
you came back to your post, your lost career recov- 
ered, then — ” 

“ Then? ” 

“ Then I understood; then, perhaps, I regretted.” 

It was a sort of avowal. Touched to the core of his 
heart, he extended his hands to throw down the wall 
which for fifteen years had separated them and which 
her words had shaken. He had already opened his 
lips when, divining, anticipating, she stopped him: 

“ No, no. Do not speak — not here. So many 
others have told me the same thing in this place. 
You — I will not have it — it is too late.” 

His impulse checked, he repeated questioningly : 

‘‘ So many others have told you the same? ” 

“ Yes. Hubert Epervans, for example, has knelt 
at my feet just here.” 

‘‘ Hubert? ” 

“Why be vexed with him now? The poor man! 
He is so unfortunate ! ” 

As if he had rights in her, he asked : 

“ And you have listened to no one? ” 


210 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


‘‘No one. I was waiting.” 

What did the last words mean.^ She was look- 
ing him in the face, defying him. He could not 
fathom it. 

Felix came in, stroking his handsome pointed beard. 
He, at least, was satisfied with his ministry. 

“ You asked for me at Place Vendome.^ ” 

His lately gratified vanity was still recent enough 
to obscure his faculty of observation. Pascal and 
Laurence were flying, whip and spur, along the high- 
road of their youth. Like horsemen plunging through 
high weeds, they were breast-high in memories. How 
was it that he did not detect in their transfigured 
features some traces of this headlong race.^ Pascal, 
breathless, beyond all power of self-control, could 
not speak. She, at once mistress of herself, assuming 
that commanding smile which was usual to her when 
in society, went over to her husband and accounted 
naturally for their emotion. 

“ We are greatly distressed. Our old friend 
Epervans is very ill in prison. Dr. Rouvray has 
just come from him. His case is hopeless. Cannot 
you do something for him.? ” 

Pascal gazed at her, listening with surprise, almost 
with stupefaction, to her words. How wonderful her 
empire over herself as well as others! 

Felix seemed vexed at the request, and replied 
briefly ; 

“No, nothing!” 

She turned toward the doctor. “ Were you not 
hoping for a nonsuit.? ” 

“ A nonsuit,” repeated the minister. “ Impossible ! 
One of those mining companies has absolutely no bot- 
tom. It pays dividends, to be sure — ” 

“ There!” 

“ He made out false balance sheets, evaded the law 


THE PRISONERS 


211 


as to joint stock companies — I don’t know what else. 
And when his rascalities are brought home to him, 
he says, ‘ Have n’t I a right? ’ He is without moral 
sense — ” 

“ Oh, who has any nowadays, I should like to 
know? Where would you find it?” 

“ Laurence, you do wrong to ridicule our time.” 

Recovering at last his powers of utterance, Pascal 
suggested liberation on bail. 

“ Well, that, perhaps. The creditors demand it. 
They persist in placing confidence in Epervans, and 
accuse the government of injustice. Besides, Livier 
is coming to the front again. His group has decided 
to stand by him. It is dangerous. Compromises 
no longer compromise any one.” 

After a moment of reflection, addressing himself 
to the doctor, he concluded with ghastly shrewdness: 

‘‘ Liberation on bail, if you give me your word 
that he will die.” 

Laurence appeared to enjoy the ferocious irony. 
Again Pascal saw her indicating Hubert to her ser- 
vants as a vestal her victim. A vestal — so he carried 
away her image when he left the house. Around 
her, on all sides, passions had been born, had grown 
and roared around her, and disdainfully she had let 
them grow, then fall away, like waves of the sea. 

She had been waiting, then. Now she was waiting 
no longer. Had the past arisen from the dead? 


V 


THE PAST 

Nearly every day Laurence and Pascal met in 
one or another of those parks of Paris where one 
may be sure of meeting no one — Buttes-Chaumont, 
Montsouris, the Woods of Vincennes. They explored 
the capital as if it had been a foreign colony. At 
times they ventured to more frequented places. They 
were seen at Bagatelle, visiting that exhibition of 
women’s portraits in which one may follow the changes 
of dress and expression down through the course 
of a century. They were seen, too, in the Tuileries 
gardens, or even quietly taking tea at Montelpeyer’s, 
the fashionable pdtissier. Was it not wiser to show 
themselves openly.? They were too well known in 
society, she especially, to pass unnoticed. 

Dr. Rouvray continually urged his driver to 
greater speed when visiting his patients. How else 
should he gain time for his sentimental excursions.? 
His life, like a huge furnace, incessantly sent forth 
flames. This passion demands of a man overwhelmed 
with work who insists upon being true to all his obli- 
gations. That imperious genius which a historian 
of modern society has called the demon of the fortieth 
year^ which about this age lays hold upon men of too 
much self-discipline, and suddenly impels them to 
prefer, before all authorized demands of career, am- 
bition, family, the rash impulses of their vanishing 
youth, the audacity of new beginnings, which con- 


THE PAST 


213 

strains them anew to choose, as in the days when 
they were first deciding upon their future, — this im- 
perious genius had taken possession of him, was des- 
perately hurrying him on to some violent outbreak. 
He was enjoying to intoxication the charm of Lau- 
rence, which for him had lost nothing of its fresh- 
ness, but had rather been perfected by fifteen years 
of culture. They never wearied of those interviews 
which love inspires and which environ love on all 
sides, as the sea surrounds an island, though with 
a strange self-control she always arrested the word 
before it reached his lips, always when he begged 
her to speak it. Yet even while she checked him, 
thus bringing him to a paroxysm of desire, she 
seemed, by the enchantment of her face, the ardor of 
her penetrating eyes, to promise that the time should 
come at last. Those were the long days of June 
which have all the glory of summer without the weari- 
ness and oppression of its heat. 

When a man is young, passion can make him ob- 
livious of all other things, concentrating his thoughts 
upon a single object. In later years it no longer 
has at its service this power of suppression. On 
the contrary, it intensifies all the faculties at once, 
lights up every corner of the heart, even those which 
it does not succeed in occupying. While seeming to 
take possession of and direct the whole man, it leaves 
intact the vision of suffering, the sense of order and 
regret for its lack, sympathy, even affection, and a 
multitude of those sentiments which go to make up a 
full and rich susceptibility. Thus does a conqueror 
reign over peoples who are ever ready to rebel against 
his yoke; he understands their hatred, he discerns 
their wretchedness, but if he undertakes to alleviate it 
he disarms himself. 

During the hours which he spent in his home 


^14! THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


Pascal perceived that his wife was wasting away, 
though she neither complained nor would confess to 
any ailment. She persisted in replying to all his 
questions as to her health with that “ Nothing ails 
me ” which puts an end to all questioning, without 
resolving any doubt. They had never resumed the 
conversation in which, for the first time, her emo- 
tion made him wonder what she could know or sus- 
pect. She said nothing about leaving town, dis- 
charged her family duties as usual, except, perhaps, 
that she seemed less occupied with the education of 
her sons and more absorbed in herself. With deepen- 
ing pain he saw her withdrawing herself from him, 
and how was he to recall her.? One of those house- 
hold tragedies such as are brought about by misunder- 
standings, silences, or those crises which precede a 
rupture was being acted at his side, and filled him 
with anxiety. She, who with so much dignity bore 
his name, who had consecrated her youth to him, 
first in faithful waiting and then in the faithful gift 
of herself, who had made his home a haven of peace 
and security, and who so proudly kept silence when 
her all was menaced, represented all that was upright 
in his life. He could not strike her without wound- 
ing himself; he suffered by every injury which he 
felt himself to be inflicting upon her, yet he added 
new ones day by day. 

Another anxiety forced itself upon him, one which 
he had already more than once tried to avert. One 
afternoon, going to an appointment with Laurence at 
the Buttes-Chaumont, he thought he caught a glimpse 
of Claire and Raymond Gardane, who, like himself, 
thought themselves safe from observation in this 
popular resort. Later he doubted the witness of his 
eyes. Yet his former fears forbade him this conso- 
lation, and an interview with Julien Aunois convinced 


THE PAST 


215 


him of the risks which his sister was running. It was 
a morning in the end of June; he had just arranged 
his time in such a way as to be free between five and 
seven to keep an engagement with Laurence. His 
brother-in-law began by exposing his business diffi- 
culties. Gerard was weary of his delays, and insisted 
upon a categorical answer with regard to the offered 
position at Voiron, while Claire, counting on a promise 
of Mme. Chassal, refused to leave Paris. Somewhat 
heavy of manner, without brilliancy or facility of 
speech, Julien Aunois was one of those characters 
which meet well the tests of daily life, which know 
nothing of the art of pleasing women but excel in 
making them happy. He adored his wife, whose 
pretty ways and even her whims and fancies shed a 
glory upon her willfulness. Now he was all wrought 
up, his complexion lead-colored, his mouth awry, given 
over to a despair which Pascal readily understood. 
For at last he admitted that Claire’s obstinate refusal 
to leave Paris was torturing him. He had long asked 
himself the reason ; he believed that he had discovered 
it, and it was something so atrocious that he could 
not rest in uncertainty. So he had come to the head 
of the family for counsel. He had no proof. In his 
distress he accused himself of playing the spy, ad- 
mitted the infamy of having fallen so low as to seek 
one of those equivocal agencies which make a business 
of shadowing people, discovering their comings and 
goings — but at the moment of pronouncing his wife’s 
name he had broken off negotiations and fled. Pascal, 
concealing his own anxiety, tried vainly to reassure 
him, to inspire in him some degree of calmness and 
confidence. 

“ I must know the truth, whatever it costs,” said 
the young man. “ Afterwards I shall judge by my- 
self, without help. Claire worships you. Yes, yes, I 


216 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


assure you that she does. She is always laughing 
at you, seeming to make fun of you, but she admires 
you, she sees in you the successor of those whom 
she has too early lost. You may believe me, I used 
sometimes to be jealous of it. You alone can influence 
her if you will. Help me, I implore you.” 

‘‘ What can I do ? ” 

‘‘ I will tell her that you want to see her, to-day, 
this afternoon.” 

“Not this afternoon, I am not free.” 

“ Ah!” 

“ But this evening after dinner. Come, both of 
you. I will find a pretext for getting Claire into my 
study. What shall I say to her.^^ It is dangerous to 
touch on these matters, and you know nothing 
certainly.” 

“ If I knew, should I be here? Simply set before 
her the necessity of our leaving Paris, settling in 
Voiron, — the financial necessity, the moral utility 
of it for her and for me. Speak firmly, for our whole 
future depends upon it. If she consents I will believe 
in her and she shall never know of my doubts and 
sufferings.” 

“ And if she refuses ? ” 

“ If she refuses, as she did yesterday, I shall be 
justified in believing everything. No other reason 
would detain her in Paris against our interests and 
happiness. Then I shall consider myself freed from 
my duty to protect her — ” 

He stopped, made no farther threat, but by the 
beads upon his brow Pascal saw that he was deter- 
mined, and took his two hands with authority. 

“ Count upon me, Julien. And count upon her. 
She will go with you.” 

His brother-in-law gone. Dr. Rouvray reflected 
briefly upon the new complication offered by this 


THE PAST 


^17 


reversed picture of his own home, then threw himself 
upon his work, hoping to hasten the march of time. 
Through all his professional occupations he was 
simply waiting for the hour of seeing Laurence. She 
had seemed to attach a decisive meaning to this 
meeting, this day. Their love had reached its fullness, 
its intensity ; it had come to that state when if it was 
not to decrease it must have entire self-giving. Little 
by little it had come to dominate in Pascal all other 
motives of action. A slow, skillfully managed ascen- 
seur was lifting him to those heights whence one no 
longer distinctly perceives the level plains of Hfe. 

A foggy morning, almost cold, filled him with 
fear. He watched the battle of clouds and sun in the 
sky. Toward noon the latter came olf conqueror, and 
when it invaded the dining-room, as Pierre, the elder 
of the two little boys, offered to draw the blinds of 
the bay window, he assured him that far from being 
oppressive the warm rays were agreeable. He lunched 
with the family, but already he was not with them. 
More even than Henriette he was absorbed, plunged 
in thought. 

Laurence had said : At five o’clock be at the 

end of the Avenue Henri Martin, toward the Bois 
de Boulogne.” Where were they to go? When he 
had asked her she had only put her finger on her 
lips, smiling, to indicate that it was a secret. He ar- 
rived there, on foot, before five o’clock, having sent 
back his automobile from the Trocadero. 

She was punctual. She also came on foot. He 
recognized her from afar, and while her figure grew 
larger he embraced with his gaze her white gown, her 
immense hat with half-opened swan’s wings, and as 
she drew nearer her figure, her transparent face, her 
dark eyes. She did not smile, but remained grave, 
serious, concentrated, as if she were preparing for 


jei8 THE PARTING OE THE WAYS 


a serious event. He had no intuition of it, and when 
their hands met, with the utterance of their two names, 
he felt, as once before, that dilatation of the heart 
which is almost suffering. 

“ Where are we ffoing? ” he asked again. “To 
the Bois ? ” 

“ No, you shall see.” 

“ Will you have a carriage.^ ” 

“ Oh, no, it is not far. We shall go on foot very 
easily.” 

They went back along the avenue, which is one of 
the most shady and tempting in Paris for idle saun- 
tering. At intervals he turned to watch her as she 
walked. 

“How grave you are!” he said. “You do not 
smile, you do not talk.” 

With all the grace at her command, she replied, 
drawing him into the rue Eugene Delacroix : 

“ I am remembering.” 

Her dress revealed all her outlines and the har- 
mony of her movements. She was as light as a girl, 
and yet she made the most of her years for adding 
to the matchless form of youth that imdefinable sense 
of finish, rare and almost too delicate, which is all the 
more attractive as one realizes that it is unique and 
fragile. 

He recognized the Passy quarter and that rue de la 
Tour where he had watched Chassal, and the rue 
Desbordes-Valmore, his goal in the days of his en- 
gagement. Where was Laurence leading him.'^ 

She stopped where he had foreseen that she would 
stop, before a villa shut in by an wy-covered iron 
fence. Nothing was changed, neither the arched 
windows nor the porch nor the climbing clematis. 
The street lay deserted in the sunshine. Were tliey 
about to awaken their beautiful sleeping past.? 


THE PAST 


219 

** Might we enter ? ” he asked almost in a whisper, 
as if not to break the charm of their pilgrimage. 

She felt in her reticule and triumphantly — smiling 
at last ! — drew out a key. 

“ Is no one here ? ” 

“ No, just now there is no one. The tenants have 
left town.” 

She went on explaining as she reached for the 
lock. 

“ After my mother’s death I kept this house. My 
father cared nothing for it. His fortune was less 
than my mother’s and he preferred stocks. Did you 
not meet him at my soiree ? ” 

“Yes, always cheerful.” 

“ And his wife.^ ” 

“ I did not know that he had married again.” 

“ A woman younger than I. My step-mother 
dresses ravishingly. I shall say nothing else about 
her. Now let ’s not talk longer of these things.” 

She seemed to be shaking off a feeling of sadness. 
He divined a sorrowful experience behind her words, 
and even accorded a regretful memory to the silent 
Mme. Aveniere whom he had known. Laurence, how- 
ever, had opened the gate, and they entered. With a 
sudden movement she closed the gate. 

“ Now,” she said, “ now there are only ourselves 
here. Now there is no one but us in the world.” 

They went up the steps. She preceded him into 
the house, and threw up the shades as if to arouse 
their youth. Both were silent, oppressed by the 
emotions of this return to the old scenes. And when 
she led him into the narrow little garden behind the 
house, where the fragrance of jasmine and honey- 
suckle gave them a friendly welcome, he suddenly re- 
membered that it was precisely the anniversary of his 
departure fifteen years before. How happily in- 


220 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


spired had Laurence been, thus to retard their avow- 
als, to subject their passion — both of the present 
and of former days — to this high novitiate, to have 
chosen this day and these surroundings to efface the 
lapse of time. Love itself then was capable of being 
perfected when a practiced and delicate-minded artist, 
unbandaging his eyes, had the tact to guide him. 

Fifteen years! Was it possible that so long a 
time had passed.^ He could not reahze it, and could 
easily believe that it had been obliterated. Nothing 
around him was changed. It was the garden and it 
was Laurence. The trees were in the same place. 
Had they grown so slowly — or had they been re- 
placed.? Those were the same shadows which they 
cast upon the sand. The clumps of roses were the 
same as in other days. Distant Paris, forgotten, 
suppressed, was unseen, unheard. At the most could 
one distinguish at intervals the regular trot of a 
horse drawing a rubber-tired carriage. Birds were 
twittering, as in the country. The sun was still high, 
— the unchanging day was not near its close. 

A few iron chairs were scattered about. She 
quietly laid upon one her hat with its great wings, 
and her umbrella, seated herself in an arm-chair, and 
with her hands lying along its arms in that attitude 
of perfect calm in which he had before seen her, she 
asked : 

“ What have you to say to me, my friend.? ” 

She checked him no longer. She invited him to 
speak. It was the hour which she had chosen out of 
all the hours. 

He seated himself beside her, he leaned over her, 
and taking her hand he murmured: 

“ Laurence, you wore a white dress as you do 
to-day. I find you here just what I left you.” 


THE PAST 


^21 


“ No, you have kept all your youth. You have 
kept it for me. But you have made it to be a reflec- 
tion of your mind, a charm which has learned how to 
make the most of itself. It is much more beautiful.” 

“ My betrothed,” she said, “ time lies between.” 

‘‘ It no longer lies between ; we have banished it. 
Presently, when I shall press you to my heart, Lau- 
rence, we shall silence those fifteen years which are 
about to die.” 

But she replied wildly : “ Fifteen years ! Fifteen 
years ago, Pascal, do you remember? ” 

‘‘ It was yesterday.” 

“ Fifteen years ago you went away. Will you go 
away again? ” 

“ Never again shall I be so mad as to go away.” 

He spoke the words hurriedly, as if fearing to 
regret them, to unsay them, on reflection. She fixed 
her large eyes upon him, her whole face transfigured 
in its pallor with an almost savage joy which shook 
her whole frame. Not content with the impulsive ut- 
terance, as if to exact its full meaning she exclaimed : 

“ Say those words again, I entreat you.” 

He repeated more gently, less impetuously: 

“ Laurence, I shall not go again.” 

In a lightning flash, like a vision of death, he be- 
held all that had been the support of his life, the 
work of his past years, the secure sweetness of his 
home, the opening promise of his future. How could 
he forswear all these? Where was love’s power to 
release him, to restore him to freedom, — that free- 
dom to which he had once refused to subject himself, 
and which was now a second time tempting him, show- 
ing him an empty world tenanted only by Laurence 
and himself, with the right to cull his days at his 
own will, use them at his own good pleasure? 

But the words which he had used did not bind him. 


222 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


They corresponded to no reality. For a month past 
the obligations of his life had not interfered with his 
passion ; both could exist side by side without inter- 
fering with one another. 

Laurence, her eyes half closed now, all rigid and 
trembling, went on with her questions. 

‘‘ And if I asked it, would you go away with me.? ” 

“ Why this question, dear.? ” 

“ Would you go away with me if I asked it.? ” 

He took time to hesitate, but his glance caressing 
her in that gown which revealed her and promised 
her to him, he bowed his head. 

‘‘ I should like to travel with you, Laurence. Of 
course I would go.” 

Yet she encircled him with questions, like the fencer 
who is everywhere at once and leaves no way of 
escape. 

“ To-morrow.? This evening.? ” 

“ But, Laurence, you are a prisoner as well as I. 
Our love only releases us from servitude for the few 
moments that we spend together.” 

“ You are mistaken in me, Pascal. I am not one 
who consents to share. I must live my free life a 
few weeks, a few days. After that, if we may, we 
will take upon us our chains again. Or else we will 
break them then forever, if you will, and never part 
again.” 

She no longer defended herself — she was offering 
herself to him. 

They were so close to one another that their 
breaths mingled. Bending before her, one knee on 
the ground, conquered, not caring to know whether 
another universe existed beyond this garden, he said 
simply : 

“ Laurence, I love you.” 

She repeated persistently: 


THE PAST 223 

“We will go away together to-morrow — this 
evening? ” 

“ Yes, if only you will give yourself to me.” 

He no longer saw beyond the present moment. He 
sought to clasp her to himself, leaning toward her, 
seeking her lips. With a sudden gesture she shook 
herself free and stood upright before him. Before 
he had time to rise, she saw him at her feet and burst 
into laughter. Thus repulsed and mocked, perceiv- 
ing at a glance the trap into which he had fallen, 
the fierce impulse overtook him in this secluded place 
to insult the person of her who had so grossly in- 
sulted him. His effort to control himself forced him 
to bear the added affront of words in which she 
poured forth all her rancor. 

“ I am avenged, at last I am avenged,” she re- 
peated, forcing herself to laugh on. “ Fifteen years 
ago, here, in this very spot, you one night inflicted 
upon me the worst of tortures, desertion and shame. 
Yes, shame, do you hear? I have never forgiven 
you that. I have never forgiven any one that. How 
many men have I compelled to consent to every sacri- 
fice, even the most odious, and when they had con- 
sented I have driven them away. I was practicing. 
I hoped that in the future, sooner or later, we might 
bring about a meeting. I sought you out — going 
even to your house to seek you. Your pride pro- 
tected you. I was determined to break down that 
pride. There it is — all in fragments; gather it 
up! Ah, your humiliation is another thing than 
mine! You subordinated your love to family obli- 
gations. I have brought you to subordinate your 
family, all that you hold dear, to me. I am satis- 
fied. This moment is well worth waiting for, through 
fifteen years.” 

He had recovered his self-mastery, and thought 


224 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


to go away without a word. But his pride was too 
deeply wounded to permit him to go without an effort 
to regain the ascendancy, to cover his retreat, with 
the help of what he believed he knew, and in a voice 
which he did his best to keep steady he said: 

“ How I pity you, Laurence ! ” 

“ Keep your pity. You need it. Adieu, sir.” 

“ Listen,” he said, recovering all his authority, 
“ and I will go. Since we can never meet again after 
what has just taken place, I want to thank you for 
setting me free a second time.” 

“ Oh, your thanks ! — ” 

“ I pray you, let me speak. Did I interrupt you 
just now.? We have given ourselves to one another 
more than lovers ever did. You had been the fire 
of my youth, and in finding you once more my youth 
as it were arose from the dead. I have loved you, I 
truly believe, more than all in the world. Only a 
moment ago I learned, by your means, what is the 
most disordered of passions, that which destroys. 
And yet you will not have prevented me from filling 
my life as it ought to be filled. You will not have 
turned it away from its order and its truth. In 
former days powers unknown to myself, but which 
now I know, preserved me from the dastardly act to 
which you have brought me in this very spot. Was 
I in danger of becoming weaker with the passing 
years ? Perhaps so — surely so. At certain times, 
especially as our autumn draws on, love appears to 
us preferable to all things else. But my sacrifice 
of long ago protected me, unawares to myself. It 
constrained you to save me from myself at the very 
time when you were thinking of your own revenge. 
Did I offer you my life? I was mistaken as to its 
importance. Even impoverished of my desire, of all 
that love which you have despised, its essential facul- 


THE PAST 


ties remain untouched. I still have my brain, my will, 
and a long future, well ordered and unspoiled, a long 
beneficent career which will absorb my life, which, 
once away from here, will at once absorb it. While 
you — ” 

“ While I,” she repeated, impressed in spite of 
herself. “ Go on, since I consent to hear your 
defense.” 

“ You have twice preferred your vanity to the love 
which was all your life. How I pity you, Laurence ! 
How can I doubt your love.^ Your very insult is a 
striking proof of it. Through all these fifteen years 
you have not been able to forget me; through all 
these fifteen years you have been preparing this 
moment. Yes, my pride is in fragments. Yes, you 
are triumphing to have seen me at your knees. And 
what then.^ Why, it is yourself whom you have 
struck to the heart. Adieu. I feel no hatred for 
you. As I leave this garden, as once before, that one 
of us two who will suffer most, who will regret most 
deeply — I do not think it will be I, Laurence — ” 

“ Go, go ! ” she cried, losing her calmness. “ I have 
had too much patience. I shall see you always — do 
you hear ? — in that posture of humiliation at my 
feet. Go ! ” 

But when he was gone she could not bring herself 
to leave the scene of her victory. She went back to 
her arm-chair and sat there long, till night came to 
drive her away, till she was only a little white thing, 
formless in the dusk as one of the park marbles, of 
which no one knows whether it represents the god of 
love or one of his innumerable victims. 


VI 


CLAIRE 

At the noise of the gate which he closed behind 
him, Pascal trembled as when long ago he closed the 
door of his empty little apartment to which his be- 
trothed had not returned. He took a few steps in 
the rue Desbordes-Valmore, then paused, seized with 
the temptation to turn back and entreat Laurence. 
He had told her that her insult was only an avowal 
of her lasting love, pouring out his words from sheer 
necessity of offending her, with no thought of their 
truth; but suddenly it rushed over him that they 
were true. Yes, if he were to go back to the garden, 
he could go to her without a word and take her in 
his arms. She would not defend herself ; she would 
lean upon him surprised, overjoyed, giving herself 
to him with tears and without resistance — of that 
he was sure. The long waiting of fifteen years would 
lend to their kisses a sweetness as of all the lost 
years. Oh, those delicate red lips which he had seen 
so near, which he had lightly brushed but had not 
touched, — was it possible that they would never be 
joined to his.f* And the pearly whiteness of her 
cheeks, of that body of the contours and the polish 
of which he had all one evening been conscious ? The 
rending of his heart had left desire untouched, a wild 
desire, ready for all new humiliations, which shook 
him as he stood motionless on the sidewalk. 

A single mechanical step forward restored him to 


CLAIRE 


%9n 

himself. He wandered about the streets of Passy, 
not knowing where to go. When he found himself 
in the Avenue Henri-Martin, he was still in doubt 
as to the direction. It was the golden hour when, 
before disappearing, the sunlight slants through the 
trees, lies along the alleys, upon the open places. 
He could not go home to the Boulevard Saint-Ger- 
main without recovering some degree of calmness. 

On the edge of the Bois de Boulogne he hailed a 
victoria. 

“ What address ? ” asked the driver. 

“ Where you will.” 

Being sociably inclined, the man drove toward the 
lakes, and soon the carriage had joined the intermi- 
nable file of carriages and quivering automobiles, from 
the metals of which the sunset was reflected back as 
from the surface of the waters. 

“ Not here,” he ordered. “ Where you will, but 
not here. Take the narrow roads.” 

The driver with some difficulty extricated himself 
from the crowd and turned toward Auteuil. As soon 
as they reached a comparatively unfrequented place, 
Pascal paid him and went on foot straight before him 
across the Bois. He felt the need of setting apart, 
of preserving, the love memories of the preceding 
weeks, which the last scene might spoil, transferring 
them into an outrageous jest. So, fifteen years be- 
fore, he had been tempted to preserve Laurence’s 
image from disaster. He saw her again, her beauty 
all intact, attractive even in her contempt. Twice she 
had nearly crushed the natural buoyancy of his life. 
She herself had saved him from herself. Did she not 
deserve that he should cherish in exchange a sort of 
adoration for her, such as one might render to a cruel 
and indifferent idol which symbolized his youth.? 

He had walked long and was weary when he found 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


himself near the little Passy station. The day was 
declining; it was hardly light enough to see. They 
were lighting the street lamps. Laurence had not 
yet left the garden, and he could not bring himself to 
cease thinking of her. At last he returned home, as 
nine o’clock was striking. In the antechamber his 
elder child, little Pierre, appeared in the sudden glare 
of the electric light, lying on the rug. Being discov- 
ered, he began with much lamentation to air his 
griefs. His inkstained fingers had singularly tattooed 
his tearful face. 

“ What is the matter.? ” asked Pascal severely, in- 
capable of enduring any distress except his own. 

“ Mamma — sent me away — ” 

“ Why.? ” 

“ I don’t know. I had not done anything.” 

“ You had not been good.” 

‘‘ Yes, I had been good. She — she — ” 

The child hesitated, heavy-hearted, his breast heav- 
ing with sobs. 

“ She what .? ” 

‘‘ She does n’t love me any more.” 

“ What do you mean .? ” 

“No — nor papa either — ” 

« jp » 

“ You never — ” 

“ Well, what.? ” 

“ Tell me stories any more.” 

“ I have no time.” 

“ Oh, papa, you used to have plenty of time 
before — ” 

“ Before what? ” 

“ When you used to love me.” 

The nurse, hastening at the sound of his voice, 
would have carried away “ Master Pierre, whom she 
had been looking for everywhere,” but the father 


CLAIRE 229 

hastily caught up the little boy, lifted him high, and 
kissed him. 

“ Little silly, who thinks that no one loves him ! ” 

What part had the “ little silly ” had in his reso- 
lutions of three hours earlier.? Did not his child’s 
grief reveal an intuition, more frequent at his age than 
one might suppose, of the discord between his parents.? 

Henriette had kept dinner waiting for her husband, 
and he reproached her with some sharpness. He 
found it so difficult to submit to the ordinary routine 
of things which follows after excitement, fear, defeat, 
and brings no consolation with it. 

‘‘ You did n’t notify me,” she said. 

“ Am not I free to come in when I choose.? One 
can’t always send word.” 

‘‘ I gave the children their dinner.” 

“ Did Pierre eat? ” 

“ Almost nothing.” 

« Why? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ That child disturbs me.” 

“ Really .? ” 

He passed over the irony of the question. Dinner 
was eaten with no more words. Henriette, absorbed, 
wan, changed, hardly touched a mouthful. He, not 
noticing his wife, experienced as to his own appetite 
the natural discomfort which arises from recognizing 
that physical wants persist in the saddest hour, 
weighted with the heaviest moral tests, as if a scission 
were thus effected between grief and animalism, left 
at the gates of death and making the most of its 
liberty. 

Raising his head at dessert, he was surprised at the 
intensity with which his wife was gazing upon him. 

“ You are still inclined,” she said at last, “ to let 
me go to Colletiere ? ” 


230 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ I do not ask it.” 

“ I should like to go now.” 

“ Wait till vacation.” 

She went on as if she had not heard: “With the 
children. The change of air will do them good.” 

“ Surely it will. And you, too, Henriette.” 

“ Oh, me!” 

She spoke the words with so much indifference that, 
notwithstanding the distance of his thought, he per- 
ceived their gravity. Then this silent, calm Henriette 
was bearing about a secret which he would not easily 
succeed in persuading her to confide to him. He had 
thought to return to his home finding it as he had 
left it, and immediately the little adventure with his 
son, all that had passed since, revealed to him the 
fissure through which the confidence and peace of 
his home were escaping, like water from a cracked 
vase. 

The doorbell rang. It brought him a sense of 
relief ; the end of this painful interview was at hand. 
The servant brought word that M. and Mme. Aunois 
were in the drawing-room. 

“ Oh, yes,” said Pascal. “ Claire and Julien sent 
word that they were coming. I forgot to let you 
know.” 

Not once through the long day had he thought of 
his brother-in-law’s confidences. Henriette was rising 
from table when he said: 

“ Listen — sit down a moment.” 

“ They are there.” 

“ Precisely — it is about them. I want to talk 
with Claire. In a few moments I shall take her to 
my study. Keep her husband with you.” 

“ Very well.” 

“ Claire will not go to Voiron. I am uneasy about 
her.” 


CLAIRE 


231 


“ Her, too? ” 

“ Yes,” he said, without catching the allusion. 
“ She is agitated, nervous. I fear that something 
serious is taking place in her life.” 

‘‘ She has told you? ” 

“No — but perhaps she has told you? You don’t 
answer? Well, she simply must consent to go to 
Voiron. I absolutely must induce her to consent this 
evening.” 

“ Why? ” 

“ A danger threatens her. Julien came to see me 
this morning.” 

“ Ah!” 

By the mere exclamation Henriette betrayed that 
she knew, suspected, or divined the truth. 

“ Yes,” said Pascal, “ he was disturbed, distressed.” 

“ He could not suffer in silence, then,” she mur- 
mured simply. 

They rose together. This strangely disunited pair 
would then try to bring help to that other couple, 
menaced with rupture, and Pascal was asking him- 
self how he was to perform the duty which devolved 
upon him, after the disorders of his own day. 

In the drawing-room they found the Aunois as far 
apart as might be, not speaking to one another. 
Claire’s back was turned to her husband. An out- 
break was imminent. It was time to intervene if in- 
tervention was to be of any use. 

After a few minutes of conversation the doctor, 
urging a pretext which in no wise deceived her, asked 
Claire to go to the study with him. 

The branches of the trees on the boulevard leaning 
over outside the windows seemed to wish to enter. 
They were breathing out, before the combat, the 
sweetness of the night, disturbed by the clang of the 
tramways and the noise of carriages. 


232 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


Claire hastily took the defensive. 

“ I know, you are going to preach to me, advise 
me to leave Paris and bury myself at Voiron. What 
good will that do you.'^ Are you so anxious to see 
no more of me.^ ” 

Pascal, thus forced to speak, began: 

“ I am your elder brother, your big brother.” 

“ I know it.” 

‘‘ Then it is surely my duty to concern myself in 
some degree with your future.” 

She seated herself with a show of resignation, 
crossed her legs without much ceremony, and ob- 
served : 

“ Well, I am listening. Be as short as possible.” 

It was a bad beginning, the more so because Pascal, 
already unnerved by his memories, was irritated by 
its impertinence. He controlled himself, and went on 
in a stem voice, hardly favorable to an understanding : 

“ Gerard, whose weaving plant is going on won- 
derfully, needs help in the management of his busi- 
ness. He has long reserved the vacant position for 
your husband, who would do well in it. Julien has no 
future in Paris. A part of your dowry has been lost 
in Epervans’ speculations. In consequence, you have 
no choice but to accept. You have not even the means 
to refuse.” 

“ There is where you are mistaken,’’ she replied, 
quite as dryly and categorically. “ M. Epervans has 
been at liberty this fortnight past.” 

“ On bail.” 

“ That was enough to set the Company for Promot- 
ing Mining Operations in motion again. Its stock 
has gone up already in the past fortnight.” 

“ Don’t count upon the continuation of this rise. 
Besides, Hubert is very ill.” 

“ He will get well and we shall see. As to Julien’s 


CLAIRE 


233 


future, thank you for your solicitude. But he will 
soon be offered! an important position.’* 

“ By whom.? ” 

your friend Mme. Chassal, or, if you prefer, 
by the Keeper of the Seals.” 

She defied him with the name, challenged him to 
lift the gauntlet. Plunging her nostrils into a red 
rose which she had taken from a vase in the drawing- 
room, from its shelter she watched his anger. 

“ It is impossible,” he exclaimed, losing his self- 
command. “ Impossible, do you hear.? ” 

« Why.? ” 

“ Because Julien will not accept. He prefers 
Voiron, where he will be free.” 

“ But I prefer Paris. I love Paris. I will remain 
in Paris. One is free only in Paris.” 

“ Notwithstanding which you will leave Paris.” 

“ If I choose. You came back to Paris, you know.” 

“ To succeed here.” 

“ It was not to succeed that you came back.” 

“ What for, then, if you please? ” 

‘^Ah, ah!” 

She had been lying back in her easy-chair; now 
she drew herself up, facing him, slight, closely en- 
cased in her fashionable gown, somewhat pale, but 
beautiful in her ardor, ready to defend herself to the 
end, and in self-defense beginning by attack. It was 
almost the same laugh, the torturing laugh that he 
had heard in the garden of the rue Desbordes-Val- 
more. He vaguely recognized the somewhat obscure 
allusion which would shortly be made clear if he pro- 
longed the dialogue. In the place of this young 
woman, who resisted him with insolence even before 
he had entered upon the real conflict, and no doubt 
to prevent his entering upon it, he saw the little girl, 
somewhat wild, somewhat defiant, whom he had sought 


234 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


in Colletiere after having broken off his engagement 
and his career. She knew nothing of all that. In- 
gratitude was blotting out the past. And what 
matter.? To what purpose this perpetual attempt at 
reconstruction? Had not he, too, that very day, 
attempted to blot out the past and live his own per- 
sonal life? Discouraged, he involuntarily thought 
aloud. 

“ You are right. Believe what you choose. Act 
as you like. It is all one to me.” 

His sister was the first to be surprised at her too 
easy victory. She was already moving toward the 
door when he recalled her. 

“ Claire ! ” 

For she had not left the room before Pascal had 
realized his delinquency. Was this what Julien was 
expecting from him? Should he so ill replace those 
from whom had descended to him the guardianship 
of his sister? Because the tempest had shaken him, 
was he to lose his sense of obligation, hke a leader 
so dazed by his wounds that he can no longer 
command? 

The young woman, turning, saw him again shaken 
from his recent determination. With an air of au- 
thority he pointed to the chair she had just left. 
She tried at first to resist. 

“ What now? Had n’t we finished the discussion? ” 

But she had no longer to do with the adversary 
of a few moments back. This one commanded at- 
tention. All her feminine wiles would not be too much 
to enable her to stand out against him. 

“ Fifteen years ago,” he began, without explaining 
what he intended. 

“ Suppose we pass on to the deluge.” 

It was the last sarcasm in which she permitted her- 
self. He did not lose his temper. Now he purposed 


CLAIRE ^35 

to convince her, and he took care not to arouse her 
opposition. He went on then: 

“ — I also was called to make a choice, as you 
must choose to-day.” 

And he told the story of the past, — his resigna- 
tion from the Medical Faculty, his rupture with Lau- 
rence Aveniere, his return home. 

‘‘ Our mother was expecting me. You and Gerard 
were very young. You may have forgotten, or you 
may not have known. But now, my little Claire, I 
ask yoii, I entreat you, to do in your turn what I 
did — go away.” 

She had lost her assurance, her air of bravado. 
She was struggling not to appear moved, to preserve 
that stiffness of manner which served her as a buckler. 

“ It is not the same thing. And besides, you have 
taken your revenge.” 

What revenge ” 

‘‘You know very well.” 

“ Yes, unhappy one, I do know. And to you, to 
you alone, I will confess the truth. For the second 
time, only a little while ago, Mme. Chassal has dis- 
missed me from her life.” 

“ That is not true.” 

“ And now it is over. Do you understand.? I shall 
never see her again.” 

“ It is not true. It is not true.” 

“ I swear it, Claire, my little Claire. You may 
believe me. A man has too much pride to boast of 
a defeat.” 

“ No, no, you are inventing as you go along, to 
induce me to go.” 

“ Hush ! By aU I hold most sacred, by the memory 
of our mother, I swear it is so.” 

“ It is not possible. She is your mistress. She 
must be your mistress — ” 


2S6 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 
“Must be? Why?” 

She trembled in every limb. The word mistress 
had stuck in her throat, oppressed her, had hardly 
escaped from her lips. She recoiled upon herself like 
a hunted animal which tries to hide. The idea that 
he was intervening too late crossed Pascal’s mind. 
He took her two hands, and looked into her eyes as 
if he would have hypnotized her. 

“ Understand ! She is not my mistress, while 
Raymond Gardane — ” 

“ No, no, no ! ” she cried, “ not yet ! ” 

Her protestation was too quick not to have been 
spontaneous and sincere. The very words in which 
it was clothed were a guarantee. He loosed her hands, 
which he still held, and drew a long breath. 

“ I was afraid,” he said. “ Poor little Claire, you 
see that you must indeed leave Paris. It is very hard. 
I have passed that way. One gets comforted, wounds 
heal — all wounds heal, except those which poison a 
Hfe.” 

The affectionate, tender and sorrowful tone in 
which he spoke gained for him what he had not till 
then obtained — tears. She had so long been battling 
alone with the temptations of her heart, she had so 
much need to confide in some one, to confess ! That 
passion into which her untried heart had poured its 
purest and warmest flame, restrained by the affection 
she still felt for her husband, by the thought of her 
child, by that moral stamina which with religious faith 
was her inheritance from the long past of a race, which 
she had too often had occasion to recognize in her- 
self, sometimes envying its absence in many of her 
young Parisian friends who pursued love and lovers 
with almost animal intensity — enveloped her in an 
atmosphere of storm which tortured her nerves and 
enfeebled her will. No help had come to her. How 


CLAIRE 


237 


should she not at last yield? Vivacious by tem- 
perament, full of enthusiasm, somewhat rebellious, 
yet loyal, sensitive, susceptible, more eager for ap- 
parent independence than for real freedom, she felt 
for her elder brother a sort of shadowy admiration, 
which Julien had discerned, although she concealed 
it beneath a mocking manner, by which she hoped to 
resist him. Women take the contagion of example 
much more readily than men ; and when social gossip 
had informed her of Pascal’s supposed liaison^ she had 
at once found in his example an excuse for going 
boldly on toward error. Now this excuse had failed 
her. 

Divining the desperate struggle which was going 
on in her, her brother took her in his arms and petted 
her like a child. She seemed so young, so new. Hold- 
ing her close, he said gently : 

“ You will go, will you not? ” 

“ I don’t know — I must see him first — ” 

“ You must not see him.” 

“Oh!” She buried her face and went on: “No, 
because if I were to see him — ” 

“ You would not go.” 

“ Naturally.” The word brought a smile to the 
lips of both. It was a good sign, and he went 
on: 

“ Swear to me, as I did just now, by the same 
memory.” 

“ Is it necessary? ” 

“ Absolutely.” 

“ Then — I promise — you will love me much ? ” 

“ Yes, my darling.” 

She shed a few tears, then a sudden question be- 
trayed her lingering regret : “ At any rate, it ’s surely 
true — Mme. Chassal? ” 

“ I have sworn it.” 


238 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

‘‘ It ’s amazing. Well, so much the better for 
Henriette.” 

Then, with a wicked little delight in lecturing her 
big brother in his turn, she added : 

“ You must tell her.” 

“ Nothing has happened and she knows nothing 
about it.” 

“ Women are sharper than you think. She will 
never complain, but she is capable of suffering much 
without speaking. Don’t you see how changed she is 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ As for Julien, he — ” 

“ He believes in you, little one.” 

She tossed her head proudly. “ He well may, it 
seems to me.” 

Pascal, reassured, smiled again. “ Come, let us 
go back to them.” 

In a twinkling she had produced her powder box. 
She ran the puff over her face, effacing the traces of 
tears, and was again her natural self. In fact she too 
had given a lesson, and her undamaged self-respect 
contributed to soothe her wounded heart. She would 
weep again some day, pass through another great 
sorrow, recover from it. By such experiences one 
lives and life becomes full. 

They entered the drawing-room. “ Well,” said 
Pascal to Julien shortly after, “ is it decided.^ Are 
we to lose you.'^ You are going to Voiron.?’” 

Claire, unaware of the imderstanding between the 
brothers-in-law, intervened hastily : “We seem to 
have no alternative. We shall be much richer in 
Voiron than in Paris. And Gerard will be so 
pleased ! ” 

She was somewhat surprised by the deep emotion 
shown by her husband. The calm Henriette expressed 
approval : 


CLAIRE 


239 


“ I will go when you do. I am going to Colletiere.” 

Pascal tried to detain her. “ Why not wait for 
the vacation — why not wait for me ? ” 

“ It would be better not — for the children, for 
me, for you too.” 

Pascal dared not press the point. She seemed so 
resolute, so firm, as peaceful and as dangerous as a 
sleeping lake. 

Did the peril which he had averted from Claire 
threaten his own home, now, so late, after he had 
broken it off? And are volitions unrealized in acts 
enough ~to bring about ruin.'^ 


VII 

THE PARTING IN PUBLIC 

Seated at his study table, Pascal was receiving 
a communication over the telephone. 

“ A bad night.” 

“ Fever ” 

“Yes; 39.9*^ this morning. There was much 
delirium.” 

“ Always the same symptoms ? ” 

“ Always. You ’ll come to-day.^ ” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“ I must go to my hospital this morning.” 

“ And I to my lecture. But I shall ^o after lunch. 
Shall you be there.? ” 

“ Yes, I shall be there.” 

“ Good-bye till then.” 

“ Good-bye.” 

He hung up the receiver. The interne Raymond 
Gardane, whose help he had invoked, was giving him 
news of Hubert 6pervans. Since his provisional re- 
lease the latter had made a prodigious effort to 
strengthen the tottering Company for Promoting 
Mining Operations and its dependent companies. The 
stockholders, after having given him credit, were de- 
manding miracles, — immediate miracles, — clamor- 
ing for fortunes at the hands of the prisoner of yes- 
terday. With extreme boldness he had taken the 
offensive. To negotiate the necessary nonsuit, it had 


THE PARTING IN PUBLIC 


241 


occurred to him to use the name of Laurence’s father, 
M. Aveniere, who, short of money, his mind weak- 
ened by a senile marriage, and losing at last his calm 
prudence, figured upon the list of subscribers of one 
of Hubert’s latest emissions of stock. Even while yet 
imprisoned, he had thought of making use of him, but 
had reserved his name for a future time. He now 
offered him the position of administrator of a com- 
pany which he felt compelled to found for the ex- 
ploitation of a gold mine — as yet unexplored — in 
order to meet his crushing general expenses, and to 
put upon the market a new stock which would help 
the sale of the former ones — an outpouring of fic- 
titious values, each rolling the preceding along upon 
its hurrying waves. When M. Aveniere refused, he 
threatened him a press campaign. A subscription 
signifies nothing, but a name tactfully spoken in cer- 
tain compromising circumstances lends itself to scan- 
dal; the father-in-law of the Keeper of the Seals 
would be the bondsman of the indispensable nonsuit. 

His ingenuity and activity, even with freedom, had 
not been enough to bring order into affairs which held 
together only by a miracle of equilibrium, broken 
into by an arrest which lastingly injured his repu- 
tation. He failed to get his stocks bulled in the 
market. The Guatemono mine descended into the 
nothingness from whence it had arisen. Claims, com- 
plaints, poured daily into the offices of the Company. 
To avoid personal annoyance, he had quitted the 
rooms which he had occupied in the Boulevard Hauss- 
man, above the offices, and had taken refuge in a 
retired villa with his mistress Ninette. It was an 
inconspicuous little house, dilapidated and ivy-cov- 
ered, far from the center, wedged in among the popu- 
lar gardens of Saint-Pierre de Montmartre at the foot 
of the cliff. He had chosen so sequestered a place in 


24 <!^ THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


the desire to conceal an idyll of which he was some- 
what ashamed, partly because of his publicly avowed 
contempt for women, partly because of the impor- 
tance which this girl — short as a boot and coarse as 
barley bread — had suddenly assumed in his life. 
Pursued by his enemies, bled by his clients and em- 
ployes, compelled to give battle when an armistice 
was necessary, worn out with anxieties, exhausted by 
overwork, in the month of July he had fallen ill. A 
local doctor who knew nothing about this mysterious 
personage, bewildered by symptoms which indicated 
internal decomposition, had resorted to Pascal’s supe- 
rior knowledge. At the first examination the latter 
had found the symptoms which he had recognized at 
La SantCy complicated with infectious influenza. Had 
Hubert a year or two earlier sought the comfort 
and quiet of the country, his robust constitution 
might have made head against the disease ; but now, 
his powers of resistance to the last degree weakened, 
he was in desperate case. 

When, about four o’clock that afternoon, his auto- 
mobile, after threading a labyrinth of narrow streets, 
drew up before the house. Dr. Rouvray was surprised 
to see a station hack before the door, piled high with 
trunks and parcels. Some one was moving out. In 
the antechamber he ran against Ninette, carrying a 
hat box in each hand. In his previous visits he had 
seldom met her, as the part of sick-nurse was not 
among her predilections. As she paused a moment 
to take possession of an overlooked parasol, he asked : 

‘‘You are going away, mademoiselle.?” 

“ Yes, and high time, too ! ” 

“ He is no better ? ” 

“ I believe you. He is in a paroxysm up there. 
M. Gardane and the old man have all they can do to 
keep him alive. And he is saying such horrible things 


THE PARTING IN PUBLIC 24S 

about his former women, about me, about all women. 
He gesticulates, screams, slobbers — Hark! you can 
hear him from here — I must be off.” 

Her short, thin figure was almost hidden in the 
plunder she was carrying away. Her long nose and 
retreating forehead and chin gave her the profile of 
a bird. She was taking flight after having ransacked 
all the cupboards. He moved aside that she might 
fly at her ease. On the threshold she turned again, 
seeking with piercing glance if there might be any- 
thing more to carry off. Thus, with searching beak, 
a crow might inspect a skeleton, and finding no flesh 
left, spread his wings and depart. 

Pascal went upstairs. Gardane met him on the 
landing. “ I was expecting you, my dear master. 
He is growing calmer. Will you see him.?^ ” 

Hubert, lying on his back in his room, was indeed 
growing calmer. His convulsed features were grad- 
ually becoming fixed; the eyes moved but without 
seeing, the brow was bathed in perspiration. Beside 
the bed the father, former schoolmaster of Bour- 
goin, was holding the dying man’s arm. But when 
he saw the doctors he left his post and rushed to the 
window, attracted by the sound of a cab rolling away. 

“ She is gone,” he murmured, “ the hussy ! ” 

Chained to his son’s bedside, he had not been able 
to dispute her gathered spoils with Ninette. In a 
comer an old woman, little better than a peasant, 
shriveled, wasted, withered, with red eyes and deep 
hollows the length of her neck, was kneeling on the 
floor praying, insensible to the hard boards, her 
knees as it were stiffened in that position. 

“ Who is she.^^ ” asked Pascal in a low voice. 

“ His mother.” 

He had himself summoned the parents. 

He approached the mother, and realizing her 


S44 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


anguish, her fears, he advised her to lie down in the 
next room. 

“ You are the doctor.?^ ” she asked in the accent of 
her country. “ He is sick to die, is he not ? ” 

Pascal made an evasive gesture. She went on with 
concentrated energy : 

“ Then we must send for a priest.” 

The servants, unpaid, had all fled, the housemaid 
in Ninette’s cab, the cook and the manservant sepa- 
rately, each with a well-filled pack. Hubert’s father, 
when asked to go, refused point blank. His faith 
was all fixed upon this world’s goods, and in his son’s 
death he saw the collapse of all the hopes staked upon 
his life as upon a card. The doctors were occupied 
with the patient. After a few timid hesitations, 
due to fears of this Paris unknown to her, the old 
woman muttered between her teeth: 

“ I ’ll go, I will.” 

Led by her fixed idea, with stealthy steps, bent al- 
most double, not knowing her way, she set out to 
seek a man of God. 

After the consultation, profiting by the stupor into 
which the patient had fallen, Pascal drew Gardane 
aside to take counsel with him. All remedies had be- 
come useless. Since the departure of the Aunois for 
Voiron he had renewed relations with the young man, 
calling at his hospital when his visits brought him to 
that neighborhood, interesting himself in his studies, 
even inviting him to a tete-a-tete luncheon, Mme. 
Rouvray and the children having gone to the coun- 
try. He had thus been led to put the case of Hubert 
Epervans into his hands. The distant Claire was the 
bond between them, though never a word of her was 
spoken. By degrees the doctor, coming to a better 
understanding of the character of the young man, 
whose scientific career seemed promising enough to 


THE PARTING IN PUBLIC 


245 


be fostered, discovering in him an inherited religious 
stamina which he had not suspected, which his own 
generation had ignored, became reassured as to the 
consiequences of a love sorrow which he had at first 
feared, but from which this young energy would 
emerge more perfectly tempered. 

Wild screams suddenly recalled them. Hubert, 
seized with erotic delirium, was sitting up in bed, hold- 
ing out his arms, calling, entreating imaginary women. 
The essential preoccupation of his life had returned, 
was absorbing those last moments, which in their un- 
consciousness reflected it as in a glass. His face was 
swollen, his breast heaved like a bellows. Suddenly, 
gazing at the door, he howled: 

“ There she is ! there she is ! Ninette ! ” 

But Ninette was too prudent ever to come back. 
It was not she, but Mme. Chassal, whom, with strange 
surprise, Pascal and Gardane saw standing in the 
door. Why had she ventured into this den.? Was she 
determined to see for herself, with the cruelty with 
which she had once turned him from her door, that 
Hubert Epervans was at last disarmed by death.? Or 
was she only an envoy of her husband, irritated and 
disturbed by the newspapers which had brought M. 
Aveniere’s name into connection with the Company 
for the Promotion of Mining Operations? This was 
possible, since she knew the address. Or was she 
seeking an opportunity to repeat the garden scene, 
and finding o^y such a one as this? Or even did 
some strange bond such as he had at times suspected 
bind her to this dying man, who once had groveled, 
supplicating, at her feet? All these questions rushed 
through his mind even while he was trying to check 
her. 

“ Do not come in, madame, I beg.” 

Unheeding the request, unheeding the ignominious 


246 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

declarations hurled forth by the insane man, she 
came bravely in, calm, mistress of herself, as much 
at ease as in her own drawing-room. She wore a 
gown of neutral tint, a dark hat, suitable for a visit 
to a house of mourning, but which emphasized her 
matchless complexion. 

‘‘ It is arranged,” she said at last — the nonsuit.” 

“Too late.” 

Death was indeed there before her, — not the death 
which gently takes possession of life, as a thief might 
take jewels, or a gardener cull flowers, but that fright- 
ful death against which the dying one struggles with 
loud cries. 

“ Laurence ! ” Hubert suddenly exclaimed. 

At the name every one present trembled. Was it 
a lucid moment in his delirium.? But again came a 
flood of incoherent and ignoble words. Pascal, ex- 
erting his authority, attempted to lead her away. 
“ You cannot stay here.” 

Whether from curiosity or hidden design, she re- 
sisted. He led her to a sitting-room half devas- 
tated by Ninette. “ Why will you not go.? ” 

“ Poor fellow ! He is delirious, yet he remembers 
that he once loved me. It is the end, is it not? ” 

Accustomed to victory, she found food for her 
vanity even in this repugnant scene. 

Yes, it is the end. I must go back to him.” 

I will wait for you. I wish to speak with you.” 

“With me, madame? We have nothing more to 
say to one another.” 

She repeated quietly, “ I will wait for you.” 

Absorbed in his professional duty, he dismissed her 
from his mind, and returned to the room where 
Hubert was in the death agonies, supported by his 
father and Raymond Gardane. The dying man’s 
mother had returned and had brought a priest whom 


THE PARTING IN PUBLIC 247 

she had accidentally picked up in the street, not know- 
ing the way to the presbytery. Unheeding all sorts 
of protestations on his part, she had dragged him 
along with her. Was not the salvation of her child 
at stake? He had not brought the sacraments, he 
was without his surplice. Yet he drew near the bed, 
with a motion of his hand directed those who sur- 
rounded it to the other side of the room, and vainly 
endeavored to question Hubert, who, after the last 
attack, had again fallen into a stupor. 

No one had observed the repeated ringing of the 
door-bell, but at this moment the front door, violently 
shaken, flew open. People entered as into a mill, steps 
resounded on the stairs, voices were calling M. 
Epervans. Pascal rushed to meet the noisy visitors 
and stopped them on the threshold of the room. His 
commanding manner impressed them. “ Who are 
you? ” 

A chorus of voices arose: “I am a journalist.” 
“ I am a stockholder.” “ We want 6pervans.” 
“ That thief Epervans.” 

They were victims of the Company for the Promo- 
tion of Mining Operations, and newspaper men in 
quest of news. They had scented out Hubert’s re- 
treat, and were hunting him like a pack of hounds 
who had found the scent. 

“ Be silent and go ! ” said Pascal sternly. M. 
Epervans is dying.” 

“ A trick ! ” exclaimed one, and all the others 
repeated : ‘‘ A trick ! ” 

Dr. Rouvray opened the door. To the tumult of 
the previous moment succeeded a great silence, in 
which the sacramental words of the priest, ego te ab- 
solve^ in nomine Patris, were broken by the obscene 
howls of the dying man. The old woman from Bour- 
goin was supporting her son’s head in her arms, audi- 


ms THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


bly repeating prayers, while slow tears fell one by 
one unheeded upon her hollow cheeks. 

Then there was a terrified flight, a scramble along 
the corridor and down the stairs. A few moments 
later, with no sign of recovered consciousness, Hu- 
bert’s head fell back, his limbs stiffened in final repose. 

Pascal and the interne, no longer needed, left the 
dead to the priest and the parents. They were al- 
ready in the vestibule below stairs, when Gardane 
asked : 

“ And Madame Chassal.^^ ” 

Pascal had forgotten her. He went up to the room 
in which he had left her, told her of Hubert’s death, 
and brought her down. In the street he would have 
taken leave. Gardane had not waited for them. 

“ I beg you,” she implored, “ do not leave me so 
soon. The dead man is there — so near — I am 
afraid.” 

“ Shall I find you a carriage.? ” 

“ No. Let us walk a little way. The day is cooler 
now. It will be good to breathe the air.” 

She put forth all her arts to detain him. Though 
he had no wish to be with her, he yielded, exhausted 
by his recent struggle with death and by all the 
memories of his youth which the event had awakened. 
Quite naturally they entered the garden on the slope 
of Saint-Pierre de Montmartre, which opened almost 
opposite the little villa. They spoke no word during 
the long ascent. She walked somewhat rapidly in 
front in the path, and when they had reached the 
summit, almost in front of the basilica of the Sacred 
Heart, and she turned to face him, not out of breath, 
he recalled the visitor of other days, her who had 
so easily climbed to the fifth floor in the Avenue de 
I’Observatoire. She looked around for a place of 
solitude, but found none. Pilgrims were continually 


THE PARTING IN PUBLIC 


M9 


coming and going between the city and the church. 
Not knowing which way to choose, they leaned against 
the wooden palisade which encloses the vacant land 
around the funicular. 

Above them rose the white walls of the basilica, 
its Byzantine domes, to which distance lends an orien- 
tal charm, but which near at hand, too new, too cold 
and bare, chill instead of caressing the glance, as do 
the fine rust of the stones and the lightness of the 
arches and buttresses of a gothic cathedral. From the 
broad terrace they commanded all Paris, torpid in the 
summer heat, stretching away like a plain or the sea 
to the vast horizon, where the purple and gold mists 
of evening were beginning to gather. Here and there 
a monument, a church, Saint Vincent de Paul, Notre 
Dame, the Pantheon, Sainte Clothilde, the Invalides, 
the Arc de Triomphe rose above the monotony of 
roofs, their own proportions broken by the insistent 
and deplorable Eiffel Tower, which is enough to ruin 
any view. 

“ In the face of Paris, which is looking at us,” 
thought Pascal, determined not to break the silence. 

Mme. Chassal was in no haste. She continued to 
inspect the immediate surroundings. 

“ Down there,” she pointed, “ toward the Reser- 
voir.” The place was somewhat less crowded than 
the others. 

‘‘We have already come a good way,” he said at 
last. “What is the use of this interview, after all 
that has happened.^ ” 

“ To efface, Pascal, that which has happened.” 

He looked at her more narrowly. She seemed to 
have veiled the light of her eyes, of her face. Her 
dress gave her a simple, modest air. It was a new 
woman, without ambition, without vanity, whom he 
saw before him. 


^50 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


“ Neither you nor I can efface it, Laurence. And 
besides, all is well as it is.” 

She felt his impatience, and the necessity of inter- 
esting him without delay. But the name by which, 
from habit of thought, he had called her, gave her 
courage to continue in the attempt upon which she 
had resolved. 

“ No, all is not well as it is. I will not have you 
preserve the image of me which you carried with you 
from the garden.” 

“ Do not distress yourself,” he replied satirically. 
“ It was a beautiful image — a Victory.” 

“ Do not banter — it is not generous. After you 
went away I remained a long time in the garden. 
It was the second time that I had remained there, 
forsaken by you.” 

Are you not reversing the parts ? ” 

“ The first time, I remember, you were to leave 
Paris at nine in the evening. I heard the clocks strike 
nine. I have never heard them since without 
sadness.” 

‘‘ Why did you not go with me.? ” 

“ Could I know that you would come back.?” 

Love does not calculate.” 

‘‘ Calculation does not prevent one’s loving, and 
suffering from one’s love, I assure you. Fifteen 
years I lived in that moment. Why should I not 
have thought of avenging myself.? ” 

“ You had forgotten it a long time.” 

“ No doubt. Our deepest feelings sleep in us, — 
they do not die. We recognize them when they 
awake. And that one moment in which I brought 
you to forget all that was not me, when I saw you at 
my feet, unresisting, that moment which should have 
been the pinnacle of my life, did not bring me the im- 
mense, the infinite joy for which I had longed and 


THE PARTING IN PUBLIC 


251 


watched. You were not mistaken. The cruel, wound- 
ing things that you said to me then — if I permitted 
you to say them it was because I heard them in my 
own heart. I was witnessing the breaking down of my 
hatred. You were right; it was not love alone. I 
came to your friend’s house where I knew I should 
meet you. I came to confess this to you, because I 
must.” 

She bowed her head. As he gazed earnestly upon 
her, he saw two tears, two great tears hanging an 
instant from her lashes, and which, without a doubt, 
fell from them. At the first attempt she was showing 
herself to be past mistress in the expression of pas- 
sion. He felt the danger by the tumult in his breast. 
But she had already resumed her grave tone. 

“ You see, I have no pride left. I have come to lay 
it at your feet. I have only that to sacrifice to 
you.” 

It is too late, Laurence.” 

“ Yes, I know, it is late. My youth will very soon 
be past. Yet — tell me — it is not gone yet.? When 
I turn backward I see only you in my life. Ah, how 
tired I am of this life ! During our walks, our dear 
walks, my best memories, did I ever talk to you of my 
disappointments, did I ever importune you with them.? 
Did I ever try to move you to sympathy by telling 
of my existence beside a man eaten up with ambi- 
tion, always restless, self-tortured, always obliged to 
temporize with his ideas, the slave of his political for- 
tunes, his party, his electors, of all the chains of which 
power is made up in these days.? We are only part- 
ners, joined by the same love of domination. He 
makes a show of me, and I serve him as he himself 
serves other men.” 

“ You chose it.” 

“ Yes, I chose it and I am ashamed of it ; I am so 


252 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


ashamed of having preferred him to you! Ah, if 
you were now to ask me to go with you, — now, as 
you did in our garden in Passy — ” 

Pascal, softened by these revelations, repeated: 

It is too late.” 

Drawing nearer to him, touching in her wofulness, 
transformed into a woman all love and tenderness, 
she murmured: 

“ Is it truly too late ? Pascal, do not forsake me 
a third time, now that I understand, now that I am 
perfectly sure that you love me. I am not happy. 
That day, in the garden, you said that I was the same 
as at our betrothal. Do you not want me for your 
friend, Pascal.^ Do you not want me — ” 

She did not finish. Perhaps she dared not; per- 
haps she was doubtful of her triumph. Yet she 
might have triumphed but for the publicity of the 
place, but for the comings and goings which permitted 
Pascal to estimate the importance of her humiliation 
and to refuse himself to her. Circumstances always 
have their part in human weakness, but they go 
farther than appearances seem to show. He spoke 
the final too late which parted them. 

At their feet the city began to be lost in the haze 
of a beautiful summer evening. The distant horizon 
was palpitating in a golden dust. With unexpected 
lightness Laurence seemed to evade Pascal’s refusal : 

“ It must be late, indeed. And I am not dressed ! 
We have a dinner party this evening. Au revoir, 
then.” 

“ No, adieuJ*^ 

She seemed surprised, took on an air of melancholy, 
and with the hesitating grace of a young girl which 
did not seem to be affected : 

“ Really adieu? One does n’t kiss in public. All 
the same, kiss me.” 


THE PARTING IN PUBLIC 


253 


She tendered him her cheek. She had told the 
truth when she said that she had no more pride. He 
touched it lightly with his lips, with a detachment 
which surprised himself, then, remembering, he said: 

“ Dear Laurence of other days, adieu.” 

Her eyes questioned him. What should be her con- 
duct after these words which reopened all the ques- 
tion But their illusions were dead. They remained 
content with this kiss in the public street. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ adieu. I have given you back 
your faith in yourself. It is worth while to have 
come.” 

And having thus attributed to herself the part of 
generosity, she calmly moved away with that same 
gliding step which he had watched with rapture fif- 
teen years before. He saw her take the interminable 
staircase beside the funicular of Montmartre. He 
watched her growing smaller from step to step, until 
she was only a little thing, a shortened, insignificant 
thing, a point, nothing — she who had come near to 
being all the world to him. Was she thus to dis- 
appear from his life.? 

He did not stir, but continued to lean over Paris 
outspread beneath him. Below, in the streets that 
border the Buttes, he could distinguish a vague ant- 
hill of human agitation. Among these three millions 
of agglomerated individuals how many enjoyed that 
peace which like a standard was outspread and float- 
ing above the city.? Each atom in this swarming, 
breathless multitude carried its own desire, like a 
weight. Once, in the days of his youth, he had 
dreamed of being free. And he saw only prisoners, 
showing him their chains. Even those who had reso- 
lutely pushed them aside, who had insisted that they 
were subjecting life to the satisfaction of their in- 
stincts, to their thirst for power, where was their 


S54 THE FARTING OF THE WAYS 


freedom? He who lay dead in the little villa, the roof 
of which he could perceive, had home the yoke of all 
the passions leagued together in fatal power to pull 
him down. Felix the conqueror, at the pinnacle of 
fortune, was he not constrained to continual com- 
promises, to a perpetual servitude? Was not Lau- 
rence by her own avowal the prisoner of her vanity, 
and now perhaps of her futile love? And he himself, 
were the chains which he had accepted heavier than 
all those, heavier than these which he had but now 
broken ? 

He turned away his head from Paris, the indistinct 
outlines of which were lost in the slowly ascending 
night, and in place of this vision, as he in his turn 
went down the hill, uprose that of Colletiere, with its 
lake, its fields, its woods, its large peace, — Colletiere, 
with all those who were there awaiting him. 


VIII 


THE CROSSROADS 

Pascal left his luggage at the little tramway sta- 
tion of Charavines, as was his custom, and went on 
foot to Colletiere. The quicker to reach it, he struck 
into a path lying along the Pure, to where it empties 
into the Lake of Paladru, and entered his own 
grounds by a well-remembered opening in the hedge. 
He was not expected, and he smiled at the thought of 
surprising his wife and children. It was very warm, 
but it would soon be the hour for sitting down to table ; 
they would lunch out of doors under the trees oppo- 
site the lake, from which there was always a cool 
breeze. If only Henriette had thought to cool the 
wine ! And under these details which he amused him- 
self in thinking out as he walked, he concealed from 
himself the irresistible desire for the household peace 
which had urged him to leave Paris for the fields of 
his native countryside. 

He expected to find the children in the garden. Not 
too near the water, which their mother feared. Per- 
haps under the willow, whose pendent branches swept 
the courtyard and formed a shade, which he remem- 
bered for having made use of it. Or perhaps near the 
fowl-yard. He stopped to listen. There was no 
sound of their clear, shrill voices. Perhaps Pierrot 
was doing his vacation tasks, and plump little Michel 
learning to read. Come, he must go in and find his 


256 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


family. The door open, he was ready to shout a 
resounding ‘‘ How d’ ye do ? ” — but in what direc- 
tion? He searched the dining-room, parlor, library 
— all in vain. Where could they be hiding? He 
was about to go upstairs when the wrathful cook 
appeared. 

“ Hallo there, who said you might come in ? Come 
down — quick time ! ” She did not recognize her mas- 
ter, whose back was turned, but who wheeled around 
to defend himself against the unexpected attack. 

“ It ’s I, Mariette, it ’s I.” 

“ Ah, monsieur ! Well, I never ! ” 

“ You are a good watchman, Mariette.” 

“ Oh, sir, what a droll idea ! ” 

“Where is your mistress? Where are the chil- 
dren? ” 

“ Nobody — there is no one at home.” 

“ I see, indeed, that no one is at home. But where 
are they? ” 

“ They all went this morning to Sylve.” 

“ To Sylve-Benite? ” 

“ To be sure. Mile. Claire arrived early this morn- 
ing like a whirlwind with little Germaine.” 

“ Mme. Aunois? ” 

“ Yes, sir, by the train from Voiron. ‘ Get ready, 
get ready,’ she said, ‘ we are going to Sylve to take 
lunch on the grass, and will come back at nightfall.’ 
Madame objected, but the children set up a great 
clamor, and so they all went. And madame has or- 
dered an important dinner for this evening, because 
M. Gerard and the other — ” 

“ What other? ” 

“ Why, Mile. Claire’s husband, he is to come too. 
I am already at it.” 

“ At what? ” 

“ At the dinner.” 


THE CROSSROADS 257 

Very well. All the same, Mariette, I could cheer- 
fully eat a bite if it didn’t put you out.” 

“ Oh, as to putting me out, of course it puts me 
out, because of the oven. But, however, one can cook 
a pork chop for monsieur, saving your respect, and 
some eggs laid this morning, potatoes in their 
jackets — ” 

“ Enough, Mariette, enough. I can manage with 
that.” 

He had come back to his house in great moral 
pomp, and his house did not welcome him! Nothing 
is more vexatious nor more frequent. Often enough 
it happens that men filled with proud resolves, heroic 
projects, exalted plans, or merely with good-will, 
when they come home wearing their plumes are met 
with simple indifference or raillery, if not with a cry- 
ing child or a tale of incapable seiwants. They had 
not projected their fine resolutions in advance of 
them to arouse enthusiasm. Not being forewarned, 
the daily life puts them in their proper place. 

Pascal’s luncheon was abundant and ill served. 
Old Mariette, long enough in office to have attained 
freedom of speech, did not hide her displeasure at 
being obliged to set the table out of doors — were 
dining-rooms useless, then.'^ The maid had gone with 
the ladies and children, and the manservant had a 
day off. It was no time for complicating things. 
Her bad humor communicated itself to him — his dis- 
appointment made it so much the easier. He asked 
a few questions as to the expedition, and even while 
receiving the answer was fretted because it had been 
so well organized without reference to him. We are 
not apt to be pleased that our absence is not empha- 
sized by some difficulty in the arrangement of events. 

“ When will they be back? ” 

« Late.” 


258 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


He waited, not in the best of moods. By de^ees, 
however, the calm of the place entered into his spirit. 
He went out and sat down on the bench against the 
front of the house. From it he commanded the whole 
length of the lake, the rushes on its edge, the gently 
sloping green shores. There was not a sound, not a 
movement — except now and again the dull splash 
of a frog jumping into the water. The peasants 
were in the field, the cattle were drowsing in the sun. 
He, usually so active, gave himself up to luxuri- 
ous enjoyment of the silence, the warmth, the vast 
peace. And by degrees the solitude became peopled. 
Just where he was sitting his father had once loved 
to rest from his labors, as he was doing now. Above 
him was the window which his mother had never 
opened without a prayer, without thanksgiving, even 
in the cruel days through which she had passed. He 
was continuing a life which had its roots in the far 
past. And rising under the impulse of these thoughts, 
he directed his steps to the enclosure near the church 
where his people were sleeping. What harmony 
breathed from these natural things ! How all anxi- 
eties and desires of the heart were modified, simpli- 
fied, pacified, under their influence ! 

This old family estate might well recognize him, 
bid him welcome home. He had never detached him- 
self from it. He had not, like Hubert Epervans and 
Felix Chassal, broken the bands which held him to it 
to live one of those individualistic lives in which one’s 
origin is lost. His return to Paris was not and could 
not be an uprooting; it met the necessities of his 
scientific career, expanded but did not change his 
horizon from that of his childhood ; he was not turn- 
ing away from its tradition, for he was no longer in 
a condition to change its nature. Such departures, 
dangerous for those whose susceptibility is not fixed. 


THE CROSSROADS 


259 


are for others, prepared by past experiences, only an 
opportunity to plow a wider furrow with their in- 
herited tools. If he was breathing so easily now, it 
was because he was recalling the choice of his long 
past, the instinctive choice which had given direction 
to his life. Reviewing the events since then, he per- 
ceived that he could not regret Laurence; she would 
have thwarted the true purpose of his life. His pas- 
sion for her would have perished, or at least — pas- 
sion is so slow to die — it would have been reduced 
to harmlessness, like those diseases which, capable of 
suddenly carrying off their victim, are forced to yield 
before the resistance of a sound organism, competent 
to resist infection. 

But why did they not return from Sylve-Benite 
He began to be impatient again, and find fault with 
Mariette. 

“ If monsieur would go out into the sunshine, he 
would see how hot it is.” 

“ What then.? ” 

“ What then .? Why, the ladies are waiting under 
the trees till it gets cooler. They will come home 
when the roads become shady.” 

He decided to go to meet them. La Chartreuse 
was not so far away and the walk would do him good. 
Once upon the highway, he perceived the accuracy 
of the cook’s eloquence. By the end of the first mile 
perspiration was streaming from his brow. But he 
was longing to see his family, and he went on with- 
out minding the heat. He so well knew all the coun- 
try around Colletiere that the walk renewed his youth. 
The road gradually ascends above the lake, and after 
the village of Le Pin it gives way to a path along the 
hillside, which soon leads into the woods. 

Sylve-Benite was formerly one of those secluded re- 
treats in the heart of the Alps whose ruins still pre- 


260 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


serve a melancholy majesty. Abandoned during the 
Revolution, it has been transformed into a hunting- 
meet, but of the ancient buildings only a ruined 
cloister remains, the spaces between its columns cov- 
ered with ivy. Pascal explored the deserted cloisters, 
the inner court, the terrace overlooking the country. 
He called aloud, making a speaking trumpet of his 
hands. No one answered, no one was to be seen. 

“ They must have gone home by another road,” 
he thought, much chilled by this set back. He was 
about to give up the search, when he seemed to per- 
ceive almost beyond sight a group under an over- 
arched avenue back of Sylve-Benite, where a monu- 
mental table of stone, convenient for a picnic meal, 
has been respected by time. Why had he not thought 
of it sooner How many times in his boyhood had 
he been there ! He glided along close under the trees 
that border the alley, intent to surprise them. Of 
course it was they. In the foreground he saw his 
sister Claire kneeling on the ground, little Michel 
beside her. What was she gathering? Whortle- 
berries, no doubt — was it not the season? With 
stealthy steps he drew near over the grass and moss. 
They were too much absorbed to notice him, and he 
heard her ask: 

“ How many do you want ? ” 

“ All — at least,” replied the little rascal. 

There was one whom life would not easily satisfy. 
The answer under the circumstances richly deserved 
a kiss. Pascal sprang out from his hiding-place, 
caught the child in his arms, and tossed him in the 
air at the risk of frightening him. But fat little 
Michel, well balanced if exacting, was not easily sur- 
prised, and clung to his father’s hair, knocking olf 
Ills hat upon the ground. 

“ Papa ! ” he shouted. 


THE CROSSROADS ^61 

Claire, laughing, reproved him: “ You might have 
let us know ! ” 

Putting down the child, he looked his sister in the 
face, and, satisfied with the result, exclaimed: 

“ Well, you look all right ! The air of Voiron 
agrees with you.” 

“ I am not so sure of that,” she said, with a pro- 
testing little grimace. 

“ Yes, indeed, you have a lovely color. In Paris 
you were getting sallow.” 

“ That is not true ! I was very pretty ! ” 

“ Tell me that you don’t regret Paris ! ” 

“ I ’m getting used to Voiron. I must, indeed. 
By and by, perhaps, I shall be as happy as Julien, 
who is transformed, and Gerard, who is so good- 
natured. They a,gree wonderfully, and are so con- 
siderate of me that I should be ungracious indeed to 
complain. They are coming after me this evening; 
you ’ll see them.” 

She spoke cheerfully, but her eyes were full of 
tears. The sight of him had brought the past home 
to her. Distance, the influence of her early life, up- 
rightness of character, health, had conspired to help 
her win the battle. 

‘‘ All is well,” he said. 

And that was all. They would never speak again 
of the secrets they had exchanged. Long ago a 
young girl had come back from this same Sylve- 
Benite, her arms full of flowers, distrustful of her 
brother, who, half crushed, had quitted Paris partly 
for her sake, to shield and care for her. Had he not 
stood by her.J^ Recalling the earlier return, she smiled 
gently at Pascal, and this smile completely reassured 
him. 

“ Now, go quick to meet Henriette,” said she. 
“ She is behind us with Germaine and Pierrot and 
the maid.” 


S6J2 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

As he turned away, she added : 

“ Send me the two youngsters and the maid. And 
be kind — very kind. I have cheered her up, you 
know. She needed it.” 

He alone could understand the allusion. He made 
no reply, but darted forward. By the time he reached 
the foot of the avenue where the path makes a turn 
he was running like a young man. He had seen be- 
tween the trees a second group, which he was quick 
to join. 

Pierrot and little Germaine, who was his godchild, 
greeted him boisterously. Henriette had paused, with 
beating heart, the color rising to her cheeks, her 
timid eyes fixed upon him with an expression almost 
of dread. He put aside the children, who were cling- 
ing to his legs, and went straight to her. 

“ Are you afraid of me.? ” he asked, laughing. 

A little. You come so unexpectedly. Has any- 
thing happened.? ” 

I longed to see you, that is all. I could not wait 
longer to see you.” 

“ Ah, you set me at ease. I am so easily troubled, 
you know.” 

He sent on the two children with the maid, and 
affectionately slipped his arm within that of his wife. 
Slowly they followed the avenue to the round table, 
then took a path in which they perceived the other 
group under the trees. 

“ I was wearying for you,” he explained, “ and for 
Pierre and Michel.” 

“ Was it not you who wished us to leave Paris.? ” 

“ Yes, we parted under a misunderstanding. Look 
at me.” 

They stood still where they were. She obeyed his 
request, fixing upon him her truthful eyes, super- 
natural in beauty because her whole soul was re- 


THE CROSSROADS 263 

fleeted in them, as a face is reflected in a transparent 
pool unmixed with any impurity. 

“ I love your eyes,” he said. 

She suddenly bent her head, leaned it on her hus- 
band’s shoulder, and wept. 

“ What is it, my darling? ” 

“ Nothing. I am so happy that you have come.” 

“ Don’t be uneasy, Henriette. You may trust me.” 

“Really? ” she asked, raising her head. 

He repeated with emphasis: “ Yes, you may trust 
me.” 

He perceived that, like his mother, she was not 
one to reopen old wounds, was capable of the most 
whole-hearted generosity. Why had he not under- 
stood her better, loved her more? She had suffered 
without complaining, but she believed in him, had 
waited for him. So much loyalty and love would be 
a wellspring of joy. 

“ You must never be away from me again,” he 
went on. “We will live very close to one another. 
I have not made you happy enough. I hope I may 
never again see the shadow which I have seen on your 
brow.” 

“ Do not say more about it,” she urged. But her 
face was shining with hope. As long ago, when he 
had told his mother that he had come back to her, 
he felt in himself that simple joy which comes from 
giving a little happiness to others, and all the vic- 
torious strength which naturally springs from truth. 
As if to conclude a compact, he asked: 

“ Is this what you want, Henriette? ” 

Her grave voice trembled slightly as she answered : 

“ It is, indeed.” And as they went on their way, 
both were light of heart. 

Claire, at the head of the expedition, concluding 
that it was still too warm to leave the shelter of the 


S64 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


trees, led her party into the forest which extends be- 
hind the Chartreuse. Seeking a new way home, she 
became confused among the paths, and soon had lost 
her way. Between the hornbeams, elms and oaks there 
was much brushwood which confused the path. She 
stopped the caravan at an open place where three or 
four roads met, uttering laughingly the terrible words 
whose effect she did not measure: 

“ We are lost ! I have no idea where we are.’’ 

The children fell into a panic. Little Germaine, 
easily terrified, began to scream: 

“ Lost, lost in the forest ! ” She was thinking of 
Hop o’ my Thumb and his adventure with the ogre. 

The boys, wavering for a moment between mascu- 
line pride and fear, were overcome by the latter, and 
in their turn began to scream. The young woman, 
at her wits’ end, was powerless to soothe the children, 
but counted upon the help of her brother and Henri- 
ette, who, hidden by a turn in the road, were un- 
aware of the incident. When they appeared all eyes 
were turned upon Pascal, expecting that he would 
save them. But the trees hemmed them in closely, 
and the thick underbrush made it impossible for him 
to see which road to choose. Each seemed to be 
equally attractive, and yet only one could lead them 
out of their troubles. He looked at them for a 
moment, amused by their inquiring eyes, and per- 
haps not quite pleased with the responsibility thus 
devolving upon him, then pointed down one of the 
paths : 

“ That way.” 

“ How do you know ? ” asked Claire. 

“ Don’t ask — I have n’t the least idea how I 
know.” 

“ Where under the sun do you propose to lead us ? ” 
I am sure I ’m not mistaken. Come on ! ” 


THE CROSSROADS 


265 


He led the way. Though he had not seen this spot 
for twenty-five or thirty years, the memory of his 
walks in former days guided him as a hunting dog’s 
instinct makes him follow the scent. All the same, 
on coming to the edge of the wood, he was not dis- 
pleased to perceive that they were coming out in the 
right direction. And while those in the rear were 
catching up with the advance guard, he, sitting on 
the trunk of a tree, on the verge of the forest, in brief 
and unexpected meditation, suddenly discovered the 
long-sought explanation of the choice which had de- 
termined the blessedness of his entire life. 

That open place where it had been so important 
to discern the right way among all the roads that 
crossed it — had he not come to it fifteen years be- 
fore? Does not every man come sooner or later in 
life to such a place, or, at least, does he not hesitate 
as to his direction? His belief in individuality, his 
scientific bent, his prospects for the future, his youth 
and his love, all had impelled him to a way that opened 
wide before him, easy to tread. Already he had set 
his foot upon it, when a mysterious instinct, like that 
which a few moments before had warned him, had 
taken him by the shoulders and compelled him to 
choose another road, a well-worn up-hill road, 
marked with the traces of footsteps. The direction 
had been forced upon him. The time when character 
is formed is that when the past forces itself upon us 
and creates a useful dependence. Then we clothe our- 
selves in that armor of sentiments, which alone will 
enable our will, disarmed or easy to be led awa}?^ if 
left to itself, to endure the shock of those circum- 
stances, ambitions, desires which unite to turn us 
away from accepting life as it really is, and from 
making of it an efficacious and lasting work. 

Germaine and Pierrot had seated themselves beside 


266 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


him on the trunk. Henriette and Claire, reassured, 
each holding a hand of Michel, whose fat legs were 
tired, passed out in their turn at the door of the 
woods. 

“ It is time to go home,’’ said Henriette. “ Gerard 
and Julien will be coming. And Gerard, who is al- 
ways hungry, never likes to wait for his dinner.” 

The path from the woods came out upon a sort of 
terrace which commanded an extensive view. Before 
them were the fields sloping to the Lake of Paladru, 
reflecting in its whole length the green banks which 
border it, joining both sides by a wide bridge of 
moving green, while in the background are the forest- 
clothed heights of the Grande Chartreuse. The es- 
tates are separated only by hedges; there are few 
isolated farms. Except the villages, nothing inter- 
rupts the lights and shades of these harmonious hills 
and vales. 

The shadows were lengthening. The laborers 
were coming in from the fields. The peace of evening 
was asserting its empire. Behind the group, Pascal 
embraced at a glance, with the familiar view, all that 
was most dear to him, — his family, the old house, the 
cemetery under the shelter of the church, — and he 
accepted his life, naturally enchained with the past 
and the future, enchained like every human life. For 
there is no free man, and the only equality is this 
fact and death. 


THE END 




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